In Loco Parentis
by 00Tyler00
Summary: A year after Jurassic World, Owen and Claire are drafted by InGen to spearhead a clean-up crew on Isla Nublar. The dysfunctional couple struggle to overcome their differences and work as a team. Unfortunately, Owen's sown a few too many wild oats. When a military stork drops off a sullen package at his door, he and Claire begin to realize the dinosaurs might be easier to deal with.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hi, y'all! Bet you thought you'd seen the last of old Tyler. Well, the reason I've been AWOL is due to the fact that I'm in the process of publishing a bonafide novel. That's right. Got an agent and everything! When the book is published, I will let you all know so that anyone's whose interested can crack it open._**

 ** _For those who still follow And The Little One Said Roll Over, I haven't abandoned Nate and our favorite brothers. Expect an update._**

 ** _In the meantime, though, Jurassic World and Chris Pratt dragged me down this whacky rabbit hole for another adventure. It won't be as angsty as my other fics (Owen Grady doesn't really allow for that), so if you're up for some fluff and fun, sit back and enjoy the ride!_**

 ** _Reviews are an author's lifeblood. It takes ten seconds to post a thumbs-up (or down) and leave an impression. Please review. - Tyler_**

 _In Loco Parentis_

Claire Dearing forced a calming exhale. A traitorous smile tugged at her lips, shifting her delicate freckles.

She smothered it in a tight-lipped expression.

This was _not_ funny.

 _It's a little funny_. Claire could hear his southern drawl, picture his cocky smirk as he hiked the steps to his Sunrio bungalow.

To _their_ Sunrio bungalow. Owen Grady was all about sharing. What was his had become hers, and vice versa. The only problem; Claire had considerably more than Owen of just about everything.

Except patience. Right now, she felt in short supply of that particular asset. Owen Grady, on the other hand, was just _brimming_ with the stuff. The man had probably – no, _definitely_ – siphoned off her tank while she was busy averting yet another InGen crisis.

"Um, Owen?" Claire hoped she sounded calmer than she felt, "You've been in there or over half an hour. I _assume_ the coast is clear!"

A moment passed. A scuffle, a crash, a curse later and Owen Grady – Alpha Raptor, former soldier and InGen's shining star – stumbled out of his semi-collapsed bungalow.

This time, Claire allowed herself to smile. He was coated from head to mucous-colored slime.

"Man, that is just nasty!" Owen smeared a hand across his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision.

Claire folded her hands in front of her primly, "I take it you finally got around to clearing out the refrigerator."

"Oh, this?" Owen fumed, snatching up a discarded rag (which, Claire noted, was caked in motorcycle grease), "This is what a Pterodactyl embryo sac looks like."

"Or…smells like." Claire waved at the air, crinkling her nose as Owen strode past her.

"Or _feels_ like." He paused mid-wipe and extended the slimy rag towards her, grinning. "Want a sample? Y'know, for research purposes."

Claire's hands shot up and she backed away, regretting her decision to wear a Gucci jumpsuit that morning, "I think I'd rather track down Henry Wu and get my _real_ samples back!"

Owen's back stiffened, the broad muscles in his shoulders bunching tightly.

"Masrani's guys still got you on the trail?"

Claire winced, "I…thought we had decided not to talk about this." _She'd_ decided – after Masrani Corps had threatened to take Claire to court for her involvement in the I-Rex's rampage if she didn't cooperate with a hunt for Henry Wu.

"Right. _We_ decided." Owen muttered, swiping at the slime a little too forcefully, "Just like _we_ decided to join InGen on their latest crusade for _asset_ containment…"

"There are thousands of herbivores roaming this island unprotected." She argued, "If we can quarantine the predators to a single zone…"

"Just like _we_ decided that I'd sign up for another Alpha program once the new Raptors hatch!" Owen tossed the slimy rage across the overgrow grass, turning fierce eyes on Claire.

She huffed, "You have to admit that your control of the Raptors…"

" _Relationship_!" Owen clarified loudly, "My relationship _with_ the Raptors!"

"It was crucial in defeating the Indominus!" She stuck to her guns, "And I'm only working with InGen's clean-up crew to get information about Wu. You didn't have to come along!"

It was his turn to huff, "Yeah. Like I was gonna let you go off on some misguided 'sleuth' mission to Isla freakin' Nublar alone!"

Claire blinked, "You didn't have to make quotation marks with your fingers. It _is_ a sleuth mission."

Owen squinted condescendingly, "It's not."

"Yes, it is!"

"You're wearing a yellow…whatever that thing is." He waved a finger at her outfit.

"A jumpsuit?" Claire raised her eyebrows patiently.

"Sleuth missions are stealthy."

"It's saffron."

"People wear black." Owen crossed his massive arms across his chest and threw her a triumphant look. She glared at him.

"I wish I had a flare. I would throw it right in your smug little face and watch the T-rex eat you."

Owen cast her an almost bashful smile – before it warped crooked and cocky and Claire was dodging a slimy rag.

They both knew not to laugh too long or too loudly. InGen troops had been busy for the past year, using helicopter and ground assaults to drive the carnivores off to the South side of the island. A giant wall was well underway, securing the peaceful species and research teams that were still settling in.

Owen had suspicions that InGen wanted the herbivores rounded up with the hopes of opening yet another attraction in the future.

Claire knew for a fact that that was the plan, although she did her best to keep Owen in the dark about it. His righteous wrath, as Barry jokingly dubbed Owen's explosive temper, would do no one any favors.

"Give!" Owen yelled gloriously, after pinning Claire under his impressive frame and wiggling the rag dangerously close to her face.

"No! You're…ugh! You're such a cave man!" She shrieked, writhing uselessly under him as the stench assaulted her nose.

"I think what you meant to say…" He grunted as Claire's elbow caught him in the solar plexus, "is 'Owen Grady is the sexiest, most manly hunk alive, and also, board shorts are totally acceptable for Central American dates'!"

"You...Oh! Get off me, Owen!"

"Give!" The rag dropped closer.

"Alright, alright! Milk carton! You can drink from the milk carton!"

Claire had him. She knew it by the way his body froze astride her.

"Keep talkin'."

Oh, he was infuriating! Claire winced as a rock dug into her pelvis, racking her brain for another card to play.

A roar, faint but growing stronger, made them both freeze.

Claire hated the way her heart began to pound a mile minute and her mouth turned dry whenever she heard a noise like that. Her therapist said it was PTSD.

Owen said it was common sense.

"Is it…?" She whispered as her beau rolled off her and tugged her to her feet.

"It's just an engine." Owen reassured her, but the sharp look in his eyes told her he'd felt the panic too.

The roar approached, sputtering as the four-by-four shifted over unkempt terrain. Claire brushed off her jumpsuit and smoothed back her hair.

Owen folded his arms and squinted suspiciously at the approaching vehicle, slimy rag still clenched in his fist.

"Aw, hell." He bit out, "It's that ass-hat Tucker."

Claire threw him a reproachful look, "You're _not_ going to throw the rag at him."

"Don't count on it."

A jab from Claire's elbow silenced any further complaints from Owen as the jeep pulled up in front of them. Dust clouded at its fender, enveloping the stout man who descended from inside.

A year ago, Claire would have dreamed of working under a man like Roland Tucker. He was one of InGen's brightest stars, and was rumored to have been mentored by John Hammond himself. Tucker was heading up InGen's containment program on Isla Nublar, and had so far shown himself to be a well-educated individual with little tolerance for stupidity.

" _Except his own." Owen's words rang in Claire's memory, "That hobbit's margin for error is as tiny as his…"_

"Mr. Tucker!" Claire forced a smile, stepping forward to shake the pudgy hand outstretched to her, "What brings you out here?"

"Yeah, thought they didn't let you out much after that little incident with the triceratops last week." Owen's arms were still crossed. Claire noted that Tucker didn't bother extending his hand in his direction, either.

 _Men_. She pursed her lips and resigned herself to role of diplomat once more.

"Ms. Dearing," Tucker tilted his head, "Owen." The contempt in his voice rang clear, "I thought I'd find you back on the reserve heading up your _separate_ divisions."

"We were just doin' a bit of recon." Owen waved the rag at his disheveled bungalow, "By the way, who's a guy gotta strangle to get a hammer and nails in this outfit?"

Tucker narrowed his eyes. His nose, the only sharp feature on his otherwise rounded face, crinkled at its bridge, "Mr. Grady, are you aware that a CWS helicopter with a military escort touched down in Isla Nublar not two hours ago?"

"Say what?" Owen's squint deepened, morphing from suspicious to incredulous, "What the hell is CWS?"

"Child Welfare Services." Claire felt a lump in her throat as she stepped forward. Visions of Zach and Grey flooded her consciousness, "Mr. Tucker, is everything alright?"

"No, it is _not_ alright!" Tucker responded turgidly, mopping at his sweaty brow. Claire noticed Owen subtly his filthy rag as a peace offering and gave him a fierce, tight-lipped expression.

His hand resting on her shoulder reassured her that happy-go-lucky Grady had just been replaced by Alpha Grady. Claire could count on Alpha Grady. She sucked in another calming breath.

"Mr. Tucker, what exactly is going on? What are Child Welfare Services doing in Isla Nublar?"

"Maybe some rich hipster wants to adopt a baby dinosaur." Owen drawled in her ear. She recognized the attempt to soothe her nerves. "Hell, could be Brangelina for all we know."

"It is _not_ Brangelina!" Tucker snapped.

"Well, I'm sorry, Tucker – why the hell don't you enlighten us as to what exactly Child Services are doing in the middle of a restricted area?" Owen's voice, in contrast to Tucker's, dropped two octave as he waved an arm at the expanse of land surrounding them.

"I was hoping, Mr Grady, as the alleged father of the young man in question, that you'd have the answer to that question!" Tucker glanced up sharply as a shriek pierced the air.

A Pterodactyl on the cusp of adolescence had appeared out of nowhere. It dropped into a nosedive, powerful wings beating the air as it headed straight for the earth-bound trio.

"Look out!"

"Oh my god!"

"Where's my goddamn gun?"

The three separate hollers came from Claire, Tucker and Owen in that self-same sequence.

The first half-dove, half-fell to the ground at a protective shove from Owen.

The second turned tail and made a beeline for his vehicle.

The third dropped, rolled, snatched up his weapon and shot the prehistoric reenactment right between the eyes with a sawed-off shotgun.

As the magnificent beast sprawled, lifeless, at his feet, Owen Grady blew out a breath before turning to yell at Tucker, who was quaking behind his windshield.

"What the hell d'ya mean – alleged father?"

6


	2. Chapter 2

_**Gracias for all the follows and the feedback. Keep it coming. I don't think I've ever updated within the space of 24 hours before. Do you see what motivation does to me, people? - Tyler**_

"This is ridiculous." Owen stressed. He made sure he uttered the declaration loud enough for Claire – who was strutting silently beside him – to hear it.

The only reply was the sound of her heels clicking against the steel corridor of InGen's base of operations.

"Corine Simmons." Owen continued furiously, "I mean, we dated for _one_ week in college before she up and skipped town! Granted, we were hornier than two rexes in heat, but come on! Really?"

Claire continued to ignore him, falling into place behind Tucker's personal security who were escorting them.

"A kid." Owen muttered, more to himself than to her, "I mean, who the hell waits fifteen years to tell someone they have a kid? It's not like I was off the grid, right? I have a cell phone…"

"You never answer it." Claire broke her silence to point out, eyes still glued calmly ahead.

"I've got an e-mail account!"

"Only your InGen one, which you never check 'on principle'."

Owen stopped dead at the ice in Claire's voice, "Hey!"

She paused, but didn't turn around. Her slender shoulders stiffened under the soft fabric of her jumpsuit.

His blue eyes widened as his eyebrows rose in an earnest expression.

"I did _not_ know about this, Claire. I swear, if Corine had even _hinted_ …"

"I know." Claire acknowledged softly, eyes trained on the ground, "I saw you with your Raptors." The unspoken message rang clear: you would never have abandoned your own child.

"It's just…a shock, that's all." Claire's game face was back on as she pitched him a confident smile, "I'm sure that Stuart…"

"Stanley." Owen squinted at the file in his hand to confirm.

" _Stanley_ is a lovely boy."

"Lovely or not, kid ain't gonna last a week in this hellhole." The man scowled at Tucker who had thrown open the doors ahead of them, "The sooner I sign this custody waiver, the sooner they can ship him off to his grandma's where the only monsters are the ones under his bed."

"Remind me why they brought him here in the first place." Claire was about as qualified as Owen when it came to raising children (probably less, if you counted Owen's ability to imprint), but even she knew Isla Nublar was right next to Chernobyl on the list of child-friendly environments.

"Apparently Corine was estranged from her parents. She died six months ago, and her will listed yours truly as custodian and biological father of Steven…"

"Stanley."

"Whatever. Her parents spent the last six months suing for custody, but it turns out the court ruled'em unfit guardians." Owen's lips were tight and his hand drummed on the holster of his handgun. He was nervous.

"They chose _you_ over his grandparents?" Claire's eyebrows rose under her rust-colored fringe.

If Owen was insulted, he didn't show it, "Right? These child welfare people are bat-shit crazy."

"So…that doesn't worry you?" She pressed, fingers knitting in front of her as they stepped inside Tucker's sprawling office. Many of the personnel took issue with the wide variety of teeth, claws, beaks and bones the man had mounted on his wall.

Claire didn't think it was worth rocking the boat to point out the insensitivity of the display.

Owen had threatened to shove a T-rex claw up Tucker's ass if he dared to showcase a single Raptor body part.

"Why _should_ it worry me?" Owen frowned at her as they approached the crowd of fussing military officers haggling with welfare service personnel, "Hey, back up, pal. Guns stay in the holster." He snapped at a camouflage-clad man who moved to take his weapons.

"Well, if the court declared that a bachelor with a military background who just so happens to be knee-deep in rabid dinosaur droppings is a better guardian than Stanley's own grandparents…" Claire forced a polite smile at the social worker who approached them, "…it makes you wonder just how bad they really are."

"No, it makes _you_ wonder."

"Well it should make _you_ wonder, too."

"So they have a prune addiction. Still beats Isla Nublar."

"Excuse me!" The female social worker snapped, "Are you Owen Grady?"

Owen cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, "That depends. Are you the idiot who decided that dropping off a fifteen year-old kid on the most dangerous island in the world was a good idea?"

The woman bristled, "We were informed that InGen had all potential threats well-contained and were in the process of reconstructing the park."

Even Claire had to scoff at that one – not as loudly as Owen, though.

"Oh, really? Is that what they're feeding the press?" He turned to Tucker, who flushed a shade of red, "Seriously? You got, like, _six_ Brachiosauruses."

"The situation is…still delicate." Was all the ground Tucker was prepared to offer.

"Mr. Grady, we are as anxious as you are to remove Stanley from the area as soon as possible." The social worker continued, ignoring the fierce glare Owen was still shooting Tucker, "However, before you sign the custody waiver, I must inform you that Stanley has made it very clear he has no intention of living with his grandparents and is petitioning the court for legal emancipation."

Claire didn't miss the flicker of surprise in Owen's face at the words. The crowd parted briefly and she and Owen caught a glimpse of a lanky youth seated at Tucker's desk. Chestnut bangs flopped over heavy-lidded eyes – blue eyes, like Owen's. Stanley Simmons had headphones in his ears that ran into the pocket of his button-down shirt. His right hand was a flurry of movement as it looped a pen across the lines of a notebook.

"So, wait a second." Owen placed a polite hand on the social worker's shoulder and moved her out of Stanley's line of vision, "You're tellin' me that if I sign over custody, he's just gonna, what, live on the streets?"

"Stanley's mother left him over 20,000 dollars in a trust fund to be held until he's a legal adult." The woman explained, "My guess is that he'll ask the court to grant him emancipation based on that nest egg."

"20,000 dollars? You kidding me? That ain't enough to lay him over till he's eighteen!" Owen was liking this idea less and less.

"That's likely how the court will see it, and since his grandparents have been deemed unfit for custody and Stanley has refused to cooperate, the most probable outcome will be that he is placed in foster care."

Claire felt a wave of sympathy for the boy at the desk. She glanced askance at Owen, whose hands were planted on his hips as he appraised his estranged child with a long, hard gaze.

"Mr Grady?" The social worker pressed.

"Mind givin' us a minute?" He didn't shift his focus as he muttered the request. The woman crooked a finger at the host of invaders swarming the room.

"Let's take five, people."

"I'd stay inside the facility." Claire advised her as they shuffled out the office door, "We have watchtowers and ground troops on twenty-four hour surveillance, but this compound is far from secure."

"I understand. We won't go far."

Claire moved to leave, but hovered in the doorway, unable to suppress her curiosity. Owen had ambled casually (the way his fingers dug into his gun belt suggested otherwise) over to the desk behind which Stanley sat.

The teenager slowly, deliberately removed his headphones, tapped at his pocket to cut the music, and leaned back in his chair. The cold eyes with which he looked at Owen were glazed with indifference.

Owen cleared his throat, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting and wondering what the hell one says to one's son whom one has never even met before today…

 _God, I sound like Claire. Man up, Grady_.

Another throat-clearing. That shit always helped.

"So…"

"Please." Stanley held up a palm, his voice deep with freshly-broken adolescence, "Let's not do this to ourselves."

Owen tilted his head in confusion, taken aback by the sudden statement, "Do what?"

"You know, the pleasantries." Stanley threaded his fingers together and planted his elbows on the table, looking very much like a Wall Street broker, "Introductions, apologies, promises…" He shuddered, a moment of teenage drama breaking through as he did so, "…it's really not necessary, Owen."

"Owen?" Owen's brow arched, half-confused, half-amused.

"As you can see, we've already been introduced. As far as I'm concerned, you have nothing to apologize for, and as for promises, well," Stanley slid a stack of papers towards his father, "if you'll just sign this waiver for me, I promise never to darken your doorstep again. It's a win-win situation, really…"

"Okay! My turn to talk!" Owen hadn't meant for it come out as a bark, but he knew a thing or two about establishing roles early on in the game, "Firstly, hi. Nice to meet you…Stanley, right?"

The kid's mouth tightened and he made no reply.

"Listen, I may not have anything to apologize for – y'know, seeing as I had no idea you existed and all – but it don't mean I ain't sorry you lost your mom, and it don't mean I like the idea of you goin' into foster care just 'cause you and Grampy Simmons ain't buddies."

"I have no intention of going into foster care." Stanley replied in a passive-aggressive voice that reminded Owen of Claire, "I'm going to be legally emancipated."

"Right, yeah, they told me. Now, uh, I dunno where you plan on going to college, or where you plan on living, but 20,000 dollars ain't gonna make a dent…"

"It's really none of your business, Owen." Stanley snapped. It was the first time the kid had displayed a genuine emotion, "I'm sure you have some woolly mammoths to go biking with. Just sign the papers and I'll be out of your hair."

"You know what? No!" Owen wasn't entirely sure why he made the split-second decision. It mostly had to do with the fact that Stanley was pissing him off, and he wanted to return the favor.

"Excuse me?" Stanley looked like his jaw had just lost a pin. That boosted Owen's spirits enormously, and he felt himself straighten smugly as he continued.

"See, I was _gonna_ sign this, _Stanley_ ," Owen waved the form, "but then you decided to piss me off. And as anyone who's worked with me plus the dead Pterodactyl 'bout a mile off can tell ya, that's a _really_ bad idea."

"I can't believe this!" Stanley shoved off from the table and stood, "You can't be serious!"

"That is _not_ true! I have…serious moments." Here Owen lowered the finger he'd raised as he struggled to recall some recent proof, "But I'll make you a deal, kid; if you swear by God and all the holy angels and by your goddamn itch to get off this island that you will _stay put_ ," Owen raised his eyebrows sincerely, "I'll let you stay with my mom in Minnesota."

"You'll _let_ me!" Stanley sneered.

"Yeah, I'll _let_ you!" Owen heard his voice rising and felt his blood pumping and honestly couldn't remember being this angry for a long time, "That's what parents get to do, Stanley; they can let and they can _un_ let…"

"Well, guess what, Grady?" The sudden yell caught Owen off-guard, but he prided himself on having ruffled Stanley's well-preened feathers, " _Kids_ can unlet, too, alright? And I'm 'un-letting' you keep me on this godforsaken patch of dirt for one more second! Myra!" Stanley's face was crimson as he stormed past Owen and out the door, "Myra, get me out of here! We're done!"

It was only after Owen had let out several choice curses and shoved Tucker's wheeled chair into the wall that he noticed Claire poised at the threshold.

He inhaled deeply, chagrined and furious and terrified all at once as the realization of what he'd just done hit him.

More throat-clearing. Throat clearing was the bomb.

"Take it you heard all that?" Owen's hands found his hips as he shifted footing uncomfortably.

She graced him with a small smile, "Unlet's not a verb."

She was choosing to lighten the mood. He kind of loved her for it right then.

"What are you talkin' about? Unlet's a word!"

"It's not a _verb_. It's like…unrented property."

" _You're_ unrented property."

Claire frowned at him, "You mean you're vacating the premises?"

Owen's crooked grin was back. He opened his mouth to dish out a comeback, when an ear-splitting siren howled through the air.

Claire's head shot up, eyes wide as she met his gaze.

"Perimeter breach." She breathed the deadly words, and Owen gripped her arm.

"Go. _Go_!"

They ran past panicking staff members and security teams mustering frantically. Owen drew his shotgun from its position slung across his back and handed Claire his .44.

"Here." He started to yell further instructions, but was interrupted by Tucker, who was marching furiously towards them.

"Grady! Quit pawing your girlfriend – I need you outside, now!"

"What is it? What's coming?" Claire was too concerned with their predicament to call Tucker on his rudeness. Owen looked murderous, but then, combat generally had that effect on him.

"Watchtower spotted a pack of Allosauruses breaching the north wall about ten minutes ago!"

"Goddamn it, Tucker!" Owen spat furiously as the three ran down the hall, "I _told_ you that half-assed fencing wouldn't hold up!"

"It was a temporary measure until the wall could be completed!" Tucker protested between puffs for air.

"Why didn't the tower shoot them down?" Claire demanded.

"The tower took out three of them, but they lost them in the bush!"

Owen slid to a halt as they reached the vehicle hanger. He leaped astride his trusty bike and tossed a bag of ammo across the backseat as he did so.

"How long till they reach the base?"

Tucker was sweating profusely, but still managed to look haughty and impatient, "Six minutes, maybe less!"

"Shit." Owen revved his bike to life, reaching out and clutching Claire's shoulder, "I need you to get Stanley to the bunker."

"The evac team will take care of that! I'm going with _you_!" She protested, ready to lock horns before she saw the wild panic in Owen's eyes. This was a new kind of fear, one that she had seen before – in her sister Karen's eyes, never in Owen's.

"Claire, please!" He never pleaded. Owen barked orders when it was serious and persuaded when it wasn't. Claire didn't think she could stand the terror in his eyes. "I need to know he's safe and I don't trust those goddamn morons!"

"Alright!" She nodded shakily, managing what she hoped was a reassuring nod, "I'll just…bring Stanley to the bunker and we'll wait for the all-clear."

The tight kiss he pulled her into was all the thanks she needed. Breathless, Claire watched him speed away, remembering a time when he'd had a posse of Raptors at his flank and wishing desperately that they were with him now.

"If those things get past our guys, we're done for." Tucker's dreadful proclamation made Claire's eyes harden into flints.

"They won't get past _him_."

Claire could hear the faint shouts of Owen rallying InGen's ground troops to him as they fanned out around the compound. She took a deep breath and composed herself. This was hardly Owen Grady's first rodeo. He had air cover and ground support and a giant sack of weapons.

He would be fine.

Remembering her promise, Claire headed hastily back in the direction she'd last the CWS entourage. Stampedes of staff members heading for the specially-built bunker nearly trampled her.

"Oh, excuse me…coming through…ow!" Claire kept Owen's handgun out of sight as she shoved her way through the fleeing crowd. She burst through a set of doors.

"I need you all to come with…"

The room was empty.

"Me."

Claire pursed her lips in frustration. _Where the hell are they?_ She doubted they were already in the bunker, and she hadn't seen them in the throng of evacuees.

The sound of propeller blades cutting through the air filled her stomach with dread.

"Oh no."

Claire rushed outside, nearly tripping over a wizened janitor as she fairly leapt onto the plush lawn of the compound.

Her jumpsuit rippled against her skin, but that wasn't what gave her goosebumps.

The CWS helicopter was taking off. Claire could clearly make out Stanley Simmons in the backseat, his face a picture of malevolent satisfaction.

And on the skyline, circling above the trees where they'd been drawn by the scent of fresh Allosaurus blood, was a flock of Pterodactyls.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Back with a big, ol' slice of dino action. By the way, I am pretty much clueless when it comes to all things prehistoric and, although I've done my research, I reserve the right to make the odd mistake regarding anatomy, instincts, etc. I hope this offering doesn't disappoint. - Tyler**_

Owen jerked his head to his right at a shadow shooting through the foliage.

"I got one!" He yelled into his earpiece, "These things travel in packs; the others can't be far! Wait for my mark – we hit'em hard and fast, people!"

"Owen!" Barry's chastising voice crackled in his ear, "You can't take them on alone! Wait for back-up!"

"No time!" Owen swerved off the path, skidding through the leaves. The swiping tail of an Allosaurus cut through the trees in front of him, and he shoved into full-throttle.

"I count three in the bush, maybe another two breaking off from the pack!" Owen rattled off as he tailed the rogue dinosaurs, "If we can push'em two clicks east, we can cut'em off at the swamp!"

"We're almost there!" Barry yelled, "Hang tight!"

Owen's bike flew over a mess of roots and he did just that. Hefting his gun, he fired a shot that glanced off a tree a foot from the Allosaurus ahead of him. The beast veered off-course, scrambling as Owen blasted another shot directly over its head.

It skidded to a halt and turned to bare its teeth with a ferocious roar.

"Shit!" Owen swerved his bike violently, barely avoiding a row of snapping teeth and flying head-long off his vehicle as it tail-spun. He curled into himself, rolling to a halt and smothering a cry of pain.

The Allosaurus thundered towards him, and Owen fought the white-hot pain in his side as he collected his gun and broke into a run.

"Owen!" Barry's frantic cry confirmed the other men were close, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine! Just stick to the plan and push them to the swamp!" Owen panted, leaping over a fallen tree as he made a break east.

The 'swamp', as it had now been dubbed, was the massive enclosure home to Jurassic World's in-house mosasaurus. One of the few predators which had not managed to escape its confines, the giant beast still relied upon InGen for survival – which is why it was kind enough to pick its teeth with whatever carnivore they shoved at it.

The roaring grew louder as the Allosaurus gained on Owen. Spotting a derelict golf cart spattered with stale blood, he took cover behind it and reloaded his shotgun.

Owen's hands trembled as the heavy steps of the Allosaurus shook the broken windshield beside him. He forced his breath to even out as he cocked his gun at a snail's pace. Allosaurus weren't the brightest of animals, but they were predators and, judging by the shadows in the beast's ribcage, these ones were hungry.

Owen moved, an inch at a time, to lift his head from the safety of the cart. The Allosaurus was sniffing at the leaves, its throat gurgling and shrieking as it tracked him. He rested the butt of his shotgun on the hood of the golf cart, breath baited as he took aim at the great beast's throat.

Owen's index finger stroked the trigger, preparing to fire.

And then his cell phone rang.

Owen didn't even remember putting the damn thing in the pocket of his leather waistcoat. Stupid Claire and her stupid control issues.

The next thing he knew, Owen was open-firing as the Allosaurus charged him. His first round barely made a dent in the animal's tough hide, but just as it closed in, he got lucky with a dive-roll and the beast slumped, roaring in agony with a bullet through its abdomen.

Owen stood grimly over the fallen animal as he raised his gun once more.

"I'm sorry."

He meant it.

The shot rang out, echoing off the trees and drawing faint shouts from the other ground troops.

"Owen!" Barry's voice was interspersed with static, "…okay?"

"Yeah." Owen winced through clenched teeth as he cradled his bruised ribs, "M'fine."

"We've pushed the others east…take it from here."

The situation was under control. Crisis averted. More majestic animals mowed down like cattle.

His cell phone began to peal persistently again. Owen hefted his shotgun over his shoulder and held the traitorous device to his ear.

"What?" He spat. He knew it was likely Claire calling to check up on him. Usually, Owen found her fussing over him sort of endearing. Now, however, he found it nothing of the sort.

"Owen! It's Stanley!" Claire's frantic voice sounded over the receiver, "CWS took off in their helicopter when they heard about the breach! They're airborne!"

"Are you kidding me?" Owen couldn't believe his ears, "Don't these idiots have eyes? The perimeter's swarming with…"

"Pterodactyls! I know! I tried to stop them!" Claire was breathless, which meant she was on the move.

"Where are you?" Owen tore up a path to his discarded bike as he yelled.

"I'm in my car tailing the chopper! But I'll lose them once I hit the trees!"

"I see them!" Owen revved his bike to life even as his skyward eyes caught sight of a black helicopter making for the coast, "Call Lowery! We need a team to keep those 'dactyls off their back long enough for them to land!"

Claire hung up before he did.

* * *

Stanley Simmons watched with morbid curiosity from the window of the chopper as a giant sea beast swallowed three dinosaurs whole. He raised an eyebrow at the enormous tail rolling back into the filthy water.

"I'm very sorry about this, Stan." Myra assured him from her position beside him, "We were given every reason to believe that Isla Nublar was secure!"

"But it's not, is it?" Stanley turned cold eyes on his social worker, "And I wonder how that flimsy excuse would hold up in a court of law."

The woman blew out a huff through her nostrils, "What are you saying, Stanley?"

"Let me put it to you this way," The teenager shoved his notebook into the knapsack beside him, "I'll keep this little incident under wraps, and you'll see to it that I'm emancipated."

Her wrinkled face twisted, "Stan, the court is never going to emancipate you based on a 20,000 dollar trust fund…"

"No, but I'm sure a hundred grand would do the trick." Stanley gave her an icy smile as she sank back in defeat, "You wire me the money and side with me in court. It's a win-win situation…"

A sudden jolt interrupted the young man as the chopper lurched heavily.

"What the hell?" Myra looked at the military officer beside her, "What was that?"

"Look out!" The pilot screamed, precisely at the moment a Pterodactyl slammed its beak into the front windshield.

"Oh my god!" Myra shoved Stanley's head down as a flock of prehistoric reptiles began to assault the chopper. "Get us out of here!"

Gunshots echoed as their military escort open-fired on the Pterodactyls. One of them sank its claws into the right-hand door and tore it clean off. A quick dip of its beak later, and it had made off with one of the men.

Myra's screams were drowned out by the squawking of the reptiles as they made short work of their prey. Stanley found himself paralyzed with fear as a razor-sharp beak snagged his pant leg and began tugging.

"No!" He screamed, snapping out of his fear as he clung desperately to his seat, "Get off me!"

Myra hit the giant Pterodactyl over the head with a fire hydrant and it flew off, shrieking.

"Stan, are you okay?" Her face was smeared in blood as she grabbed his shoulders.

"Watch out!" Stanley yelled, but the woman didn't turn in time to stop the Pterodactyl as it sank its talons into her shoulders and made off with its prey in a heartbeat.

"Holy shit!" Stanley had no time to process what he just seen. The reptiles had unseated the pilot, and the chopper began a tail-spin of doom. The co-pilot was battling with a snapping beak inches from his face and was unable to reach the controls.

 _I'm going to die_. Stanley realized in agony, _Oh my god, I'm gonna die!_

Suddenly, the Pterodactyl attacking the co-pilot slumped to the ground and slid, bleeding, from the chopper.

Stanley watched in horror and ecstasy as Pterodactyls began to drop like flies from the sky around them. The helicopter stabilized as the co-pilot, shaken and wounded, leapt to take the helm.

"Brace for emergency landing!" He yelled back at Stanley, who, along with Myra's feeble co-worker Phil, was one of the lucky three surviving.

"Are you crazy?" Stanley yelled, blood from a cut on his head dripping into his eyes, "You can't land! Get us out of here!"

"Our fuel tank was punctured and our tail's hanging by a thread! We're going down one way or another!" The pilot shattered Stanley's hopes with one swift thrust of the controls. The teenager cradled his head in his arms as they impacted with the dirt floor beneath them.

Stanley Simmons felt as though his heart would never drop from his throat again. The helicopter bounced along the turf, tossing him like a coin in a can. His seatbelt had been partially ripped away by a Pterodactyl, but it held true enough to keep him from smashing his head open as the chopper finally stopped shuddering.

For a minute, all Stanley could hear was the ringing of the blood in his ears. Then the shouts, and the gunshots, and the roar of engines brought him back to reality.

"I'm alive." Stanley whispered, repeating the words like a mantra, "I'm alive."

"I'm alive!" Phil the social worker yelled unabashedly as he leapt from the helicopter, arms raised above his head with an ecstatic smile, "I'm alive!"

"Not for long!" The unfamiliar growl was followed by the thump of bone cracking against bone. Stanley fumbled to the door-less side of the chopper just in time to watch Owen Grady's fist send Phil crashing to the ground.

Indignation overrode Stanley's nerves. He stumbled out of the chopper, legs weak as jelly but voice hard as steel.

"Stop it!" Stanley yelled as Owen retracted his fist for another slug, "What the hell is wrong with you? You can't just go around hitting people…"

"Are you okay?"

Insult was only added to injury as Owen ignored the reproof and instead grabbed hold of Stanley's shoulders. The man's grip was like iron as he ran wide, panicked eyes over Stanley's various injuries.

"Oh my god, look at you. _Look_ at him!" Owen turned his rage on Phil, who had been helped to his feet by Barry, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I am _fine_!" Stanley shoved his father's hands off him and instantly put a few feet of distance between them.

"You are not _fine_!" Owen snarled, and Stanley heard Phil whimper through his broken nose, "You were almost _killed_ because of _his_ stupidity!"

" _I_ told them I wanted to leave!" Stanley fumed, wiping at the blood in his eye as a medical team tore past him to the chopper, "It was _my_ idea, Grady! What?" He snapped at the incredulous, slack-jawed expression Owen wore, "You want to punch me, too? Go ahead! It'll do wonders for my emancipation case!"

"Emancipation? Kid, you need _institutionalization_!" Owen yelled.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! You're goddamn crazy!"

"That's enough!" Claire cut through the crowd, her hair ruffled and her jumpsuit drenched in dirt and sweat, "Owen, can I please talk to you for a second?"

"No!" He was too busy scowling at Stanley, apparently. Claire slipped between the two and stole her hand through Owen's arm, speaking in a soft but fierce tone.

"He's just been through a _very_ traumatic experience…."

" _He's_ traumatized? I think I just had a mini-stroke back there!"

"Too bad about the 'mini' part…" Stanley muttered viciously, and Claire threw him a false, strained smile.

"Stanley, right? I'm Claire Dearing…"

"Masrani's weakest link. Yeah, I know."

"Hey!" Owen snapped, and Claire released his arm with a warning pat on his shoulder.

"You got pretty banged up, Stanley. The medical team will escort you to the sick bay where they'll treat your injuries."

"If you really want to help, you can get me on the first flight out of…"

"Move it, Junior!" Owen's sudden bark, coupled with the fact that the kid was starting to see spots in his vision, made Stanley grudgingly comply.

Claire blew out a breath, allowing a genuine smile to replace her frown as she watched the medics lead Stan, Phil and their pilot away.

"He's…really quite something, isn't he?"

"Just wish he came with a manual," Owen gazed helplessly after his son, "and an off button."

"Grady!" Tucker had finally surfaced, his spotless appearance a sharp contrast to that of his employees as he and his entourage approached.

"Look who crawled out of the bunker." Barry, who had just arrived on the scene, muttered in Owen's ear. There was dried blood on his shirt.

"How many causalities?" Tucker demanded as he surveyed the carnage.

"Six dead, five injured." Claire had done the head count, apparently, "CWS had their military escort call in the perimeter breach before they took off."

"Jesus Christ." Tucker swore, planting a hand on his ample hip as he turned to his long-faced assistant, "Well, don't just stand there! Get in touch with the authorities before they shut this place down!"

"What's the story _this_ time, Tucker?" Owen accepted an ice-pack from a medic and held it to his ribs, "Hmm? Did the chopper just malfunction and fall out of the sky? Maybe a fuel line was cut – you could throw in some kinda vengeful love triangle!"

"Considering the fact that your _son_ is the reason they were here in the _first_ place, Grady," Tucker hissed, face flushing, "I don't think you're in a position to…"

"My _son_ ," Owen tossed the ice pack down in frustration, "wouldn't be here to begin with if _you_ people had just left these animals alone instead of dragging me and Claire back for Round Two!"

"Sir?" Tucker's assistant looked up from her phone, "I'm afraid they've quarantined the island pending an investigation."

"That's impossible! Get InGen headquarters on the phone and…"

"But, sir," The rail-thin brunette continued, "the Costa Rican government have already launched a fleet of vessels serving as a blockade. No one gets in, no one gets out."

"Ridiculous." Tucker muttered to himself, mopping at his brow, "Utter nonsense. The containment zone is well underway. This facility is secure."

"Do you even hear yourself when you talk?" Owen demanded, "We are _not_ secure. This island is teeming with giant predators, hunting at will, and your wall ain't stopping shit! When are you gonna realize that nature always finds a way? Hammond's dream, this facility, it's all gone to hell!" He reached out and placed an arm around Claire's shoulders, blue eyes glaring at Tucker, "I'll be damned if me and mine go down with it."

"Where you gonna go, Grady?" Tucker's call, smug and terrified all at once, stopped Owen and Claire in their tracks as they stalked away. "You heard what she said; no one's getting off this island!"

"I don't need to get off the island, Tucker." Owen growled over his shoulder, "I just need to get away from _you_."

* * *

She traveled under the cover of the darkness when she left the valley. She knew if she wanted to see him, she had to avoid the ground patrols and the watchtowers and the deadly red lights.

And she _did_ want to see him. _He_ never saw _her_ , never realized she was watching from the brush outside his window. He didn't know she stood guard most nights, marking the cabin with her scent and claiming Owen Grady as her own.

Blue had her own pack now – a new one. She ran with a four other Raptors who had been hatchlings when the chaos started. She was no longer a Beta.

But he would always be her Alpha.

This particular night, Blue darted past the night watch and settled into the overgrown bushes outside Owen's standard InGen cabin (it was steel and grey and lifeless, a far cry from the rustic wood of his bungalow, but the bungalow was destroyed). Senses on high alert, she cocked her head, vocal chords clicking.

Blue knew Owen's scent. She'd known it from the moment she'd hatched from her egg and was cupped in his hands. She knew his female's scent as well. A most disagreeable odor – much too fruity for Blue's taste.

But tonight, there was a new scent pervading the cabin. Blue arched her long neck forward, tucked her claws close and began to skirt around the property. She recognized it as human, and humans were hardly a threat to the Alpha. But they made good snacks, and if Owen didn't leap out and stick his stupid hand in her face, Blue just might get lucky.

The Raptor darted to the window bearing the strongest source of the new smell.

The human who was slumped in a chair only a meter from the glass smelt of dried blood. Blue's mouth watered in anticipation as she assessed the best strategy for obtaining her prey. A head-butt would likely smash the window pane, enabling her to leap through.

Her plan was foiled as none other than the Alpha strode into the room. Blue clucked in annoyance, ducking out of view. She would wait until he had left. After all, she vigilantly guarded Owen's cabin almost every night. She deserved a treat, and he didn't carry that delightful bucket anymore.

"So, uh, Claire's working late and they weren't too big on culinary arts in the Navy," Owen sounded nervous, "but there's some oven-bake pizza if you're hungry."

Why was he nervous? Blue felt Owen's agitation and began to shift her footing, snapping at the air. If her snack was a threat to the Alpha, she was all too pleased to chomp on its insides.

"I'm fine." The unfamiliar voice responded shortly, "Thank you."

"You should eat something, kid. It's been a hell of a day."

Silence.

"You know this is only temporary, right?" Owen moved closer, "Soon as I can, I'm gonna get you off this island…"

"Oh really? Is that before or after I get eaten by a dinosaur? Because I'm sure a coffin would be a lot easier to smuggle past the Costa Ricans!"

"So long as you stick close to me and keep your head down, you got nothing to worry about, Stan."

"It's _Stanley_!"

"Right, so you can call me Owen, but Stan is off the table?"

Blue very much wanted Stan to be _on_ the table – on a plate. With an apple in his mouth.

"Why are we haggling about names? We should be focusing on the problem here!" Stan had risen from his chair emphatically.

"Okay, and what is that, exactly?" Owen sounded amused. Blue felt her hackles cool and resigned herself to waiting until after he was gone to claim her prey.

"The problem is that I am stuck on Isla Nublar, without _any_ means of escape, and the worst part is that I honestly don't whether I'd prefer swimming to Costa Rica or spending another minute in your irksome company!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa - irksome?" Owen sounded annoyed, now. Blue shifted anxiously, hopefully.

"Yes, irksome, Owen! It's an adjective – you know, annoying, irritating, exasperating…"

"You know what? I've done nothing but bend over backwards since you showed up here. But obviously, that approach isn't doing either of us any favors!"

"Oh, yes! You're _so_ accommodating! I especially appreciate the way you…"

"Shut up and listen."

Blue recognized that tone. Her spine straightened, eyes front as she awaited instructions. It was an old habit, but old habits die hard.

"I know this ain't exactly an ideal situation, but until we get off this rock, we gotta find a way to make this work. Now we kind of got off on the wrong foot, so how about we start over? Hmm? Whaddya say?"

Silence.

"Why do I have to stay in your cabin?"

"'Cause it's safest, and also…" Owen was on the move again, "Tucker wasn't exactly feeling generous after today's little incident."

Blue raked her claws against the ground impatiently. She was getting hungry and irritated.

"Myra...all those people." The low pitch in the hatchling's voice told Blue it was distraught…possibly injured, "It's my fault they're dead."

"Hey!"

There it was again, the unmistakable command. Blue snapped at the air in frustration, testing.

"Don't think like that." Owen continued, "It's not your fault. You didn't know what was out there. It was _their_ job to protect _you_ , not the other way around."

"That'll look great on their obituaries."

More silence. Blue had had enough. She was about to make a break for the window when her keen senses alerted her to her prey's approach.

"Whatever. Just…forget I said anything."

"Stanley…"

"I'm gonna get some air!" The statement was followed by the slamming of the cabin door. Blue retreated to the cover of the bushes as the human stormed outside.

"Well…well, stay where I can see you!" The Alpha's call was more of a plea than a command. It made Blue edgy. She decided the human hatchling with the delicious scent was _definitely_ on the menu.

The Raptor sidled up to it as it stood, breath escaping in heavy puffs in the night. She cocked her head at the strange device covering its ears before deducing it was not a weapon or a threat. In fact, the loud noise emanating from it suggested the human's hearing was partially obstructed.

A perfect catch.

 _ **Love it? Hate it? Suggestions? Requests? Complaints? Hit the review button. That's what it's for, baby. - Tyler**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you to the guest reviewer who pointed out that Pterodactyls are reptiles, not birds. I've adjusted the previous chapter accordingly, and appreciate the feedback! For anyone's who's waiting for some Stan!whumpage (because, let's face it; he's a pain in the ass), sit back and enjoy the show. - Tyler**_

Stanley Simmons brushed angrily at a tear on his face. He didn't cry – hadn't since his mother's funeral, and even then, he'd hidden in the men's room. Weakness meant vulnerability, which meant the court would never grant him emancipation. And Stan needed that more than anything else in the world.

As cool and as bad-ass as Owen Grady seemed (and Stan would never admit that to another living soul), the man was a wild card. Stanley knew that after the initial charm wore off, Owen Grady would grow tired of playing happy families and pawn him off to relatives or, God forbid, to his grandparents.

 _I can't risk that. I'd rather get eaten by a dinosaur than go back to those maniacs._

Stan's wish came very close to being granted.

Blue leapt from the bush, charging at him with an open mouth. He barely had time to scream before she had pinned him to the ground with her giant hind legs. His cell phone was crushed under a sharp talon as it dug into his chest.

His music stopped. He could hear himself screaming now.

"Help!" Stan yelled, terrified, "Owen! Owen, help!"

Later on, he would categorically deny that he had 'cried for daddy'. At that moment, with Blue's sharp teeth inches from his jugular, Stan couldn't have cared less.

Writhing frantically as Blue made another swipe at his throat, Stan's hand clutched at a stray wrench beside him. He swung it with all his might, hitting the Raptor in the side of her head repeatedly until she stumbled back long enough for Stan to scramble out from under her.

His chest was on fire, blood bubbling through his shirt. Stan attempted to stand and make run for the cabin, but Blue was too quick. In a flash, she was between Stan and the doorway.

It was a very convenient moment for Owen Grady to burst through said doorway. Stan nearly cried in relief at the shotgun trained on the back of Blue's head.

The Raptor twisted around, hissing and baring her teeth. Stan waited for the shot that would end his latest nightmare.

And then Owen lowered his gun.

"Blue?"

"What?" Stan panted, "Who cares what color it is? Shoot it!"

The Raptor turned back to him, eyes wild and mouth wide.

"Hold!" Owen yelled, and the Raptor whipped her head back to face him, "Blue…easy."

Then, to Stan's horror, Owen dropped his weapon altogether.

" _What_ are you _doing_?" Stan screamed, watching as Owen lifted a palm and extended it towards the Raptor, "Are you serious?"

"Shut up and keep still." Owen's command was for Stan, but his eyes were trained on the Raptor as it snorted in displeasure.

"Hey!" Owen scowled at her, "I don't tell _you_ how to raise your kids! Just chill out!"

Stan wanted desperately to run, but he had a feeling Owen might shoot him if he did. Instead he watched, caught between horror and amazement, as his father slowly closed the distance between himself and the Velociraptor.

"Where you been, huh?" Owen whispered, his palm inching up to rest on the Raptor's snout as she dipped her head, "I missed you."

Stan's eyes flashed to Owen's discarded weapon on the ground. If he could get to it before that thing bit Owen's hand off, he could shoot it in the head.

A full minute passed, with Owen muttering to Raptor while the beast nuzzled him like a cat. Stan thought the whole thing was ridiculous.

"Okay," Owen was still stroking Blue's snout as he spoke, "Stanley. I want you to move, very, _very_ slowly to the cabin. Once you get there, shut the door."

Stanley complied, skirting at a painstaking pace around the Raptor.

Blue picked up his movements and snapped at him.

"Hey!" Owen moved himself between the two, "Eyes front, Blue, come on!"

"This is insane." Stan muttered, his heart thumping in his chest. He reached the base step of the cabin's porch and seized the opportunity to snatch Owen's shotgun.

The Raptor seemed to know exactly what the weapon signified and broke from Owen's hold to roar at Stan.

"Whoa!" Owen turned around and gave his son a furious gaze, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just get out of the way!" Stan screamed as he cocked the shotgun. Blue shrieked at him again, snapping and preparing to lunge.

"Put the gun down, you idiot!" Owen yelled, but it was too late. Blue charged. Stan fired.

Stan missed.

Blue didn't.

The Raptor leapt for his head, giant front claws slamming Stan to the ground. He was lucky he kept his grip on Owen's gun. Shoving it sideways into Blue's mouth and pushing with all his might bought Stan the precious few seconds Owen needed to shove a stun prod into the Raptor's side.

Blue jolted back, injured, and Owen hauled Stan to his feet and shoved the boy behind him. He extended the stun prod in front of him as Blue clawed at the ground angrily.

"Sorry, girl." Owen said grimly, sounding more miserable than fierce, "You can't have this one."

The Raptor shrieked furiously before bouncing off into the cover of the trees.

* * *

Claire pulled her car up outside the cabin she'd been sharing with Owen since they'd been drafted by InGen. She noticed the open toolbox with its contents littered across the porch and sighed.

It was one of her least favorite things about the otherwise dashing (and sometimes infuriating) Owen Grady; the man left a trail of clutter in his wake. Claire had a housekeeper back in the U.S who was smitten with Owen and picked up after the man without a word of complaint. But ever since they'd come to Isla Nublar, Claire and Owen butted heads almost every day about his lack of ability to 'maintain order'.

 _"You're a sheet-stealer." He'd always complain, "You steal sheets. Do I say anything when you hog all the blankets?"_

 _"You don't even_ _use_ _blankets!" Claire would protest, "You don't use_ _anything_ _!"_

 _"My point is I don't jump on your case every time you make a mess!"_

 _"When do I_ _ever_ _make a mess?"_

 _Owen would blink, and then fall back on his fail-safe response._

 _"You leave the top off the toothpaste. Yeah, that's right!" He'd cross his arms smugly as she would roll her eyes, "Every single morning, I gotta put that thing back on, but do I nag you about it? No, I don't!"_

Claire got out of her car and resolved that tonight, at least, she'd keep quiet about the toolbox. After all, Owen had enough criticism to deal with thanks to their latest houseguest, Stanley Simmons.

Climbing the porch steps wearily, Claire twisted her keys in the lock and froze at the sound of shouting. She wasn't sure who was shouting louder, Owen or Stan. All she knew was that she desperately wished she could close the door and back away.

"It doesn't matter!" Owen was clutching a bundle of bloody gauze in his clenched fist as he yelled, "When I tell you to do something, you _do_ it! You have _no_ idea how to survive out here, and if you don't listen to me, you're gonna end up _dead_!"

"Look, I may not be the Dinosaur Whisperer," Stan's shirt was off and his chest was wrapped in surgical gauze already spotted with fresh blood, "but I was first in my class in every single subject…"

"Well unless they taught you how to outsmart a Raptor or take out a T-rex," Owen snapped, "none of that is gonna help you!"

Claire froze when she realized that both had paused in their argument to stare at her.

"I'll just…" She motioned towards the bedroom door, "I'm just going to…"

"No, why don't you sit down, Claire, and listen to what this idiot here just pulled?" Owen yanked out a hardback chair for her, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Thanks, but…I'd really rather not."

" _He_ shot at Blue!"

" _He_ thinks the bloodthirsty Velociraptor who just tried to eat me is some kind of household pet!"

"Oh God." Claire felt a migraine coming on, "You saw Blue?"

"Yeah. She must've been hanging around the cabin." Owen rubbed a hand over his face, "I stuck her with a stun prod, Claire. She's never gonna trust me again."

" _She_ is a _monster_!" Stan protested adamantly, "And you know what? _I_ don't trust you _either_!"

"Well, the feeling's mutual!" Owen raised his eyebrows and stabbed a finger at the arrogant teenager, "So from now on, you're….you're grounded!"

Claire had to cover her mouth to smother the disbelieving laugh she almost let slip. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

"You can't _ground_ me!" Stan seemed as shocked as Claire, although his face had turned a shade of pink.

"Really? 'Cause I have a big, fat stack of papers that say I _can_!" Owen crossed his arms, "From now on, you go wherever I go, and if you're not with me, you're with Barry or Claire."

"Unbelievable!" Stan shoved off from the table and stormed to the bathroom, "I almost get mauled to death by your pet Raptor and I get _grounded_ for it!"

"Hey, you're lucky I don't have a _woodshed_ , pal!" Owen yelled back in a surly tone, and Claire rolled her eyes.

"That was totally unnecessary." She informed Owen only after the bathroom door had been slammed viciously.

"You're tellin' me! That kid took a shot at Blue after I got her calmed down." Owen tossed the bloody gauze in the bin and opened the fridge to grab a beer, "He's lucky to be alive!"

"So he's new to this whole thing. You can't just expect him to magically know…"

"I _expect_ him to follow orders so he doesn't get himself killed!" Owen twisted the top off his beer and swallowed a gulp with a large sigh, "When I heard him screaming, Claire, I swear to God I flipped out. I've never been so afraid in all my life."

Claire smiled sympathetically, "I know how you feel. When Zack and Grey went missing at the park last year, I…well they aren't my children, but I do recall the…general feeling of…"

"Your gut ripping open so hard you shit blood?" Owen suggested caustically, and Claire winced at his crass description.

"Something like that. But I had to try not to take it personally. Zack and Grey didn't mean for me to worry. They were just…being kids, I guess."

Owen gave the bathroom door the same helpless, frustrated look he'd worn earlier. Claire locked her arms around his waist and he glanced down suspiciously. She was _not_ the one who usually initiated contact.

"What?" Owen queried.

Claire shrugged, "I just happen to find this new, confused Owen...you know…kind of sexy."

His brow crinkled, "Say what now?"

"You always act like such a know-it-all." Claire continued calmly, enjoying the flustered look on Owen's face, "It's nice to see you looking lost for once."

He stared blankly at her before breaking into a sly grin, "Aw no. You don't fool me." He snagged her wrists at the small of his back, locking her in place, "What does Tucker want _now_?"

"Nothing…let go!" Claire tugged fruitlessly, and Owen twisted her around to rest with her back against his chest, crossing her own arms over her shoulders. It was like an obligatory bear hug.

Claire didn't appreciate it.

"Let me guess. I love guessing." Owen muttered gleefully in her ear as she struggled, "There's gonna be a herbivore round-up tomorrow and Tucker wants me to take point."

"No! Owen, it's nothing!"

"The Raptors are hatching and they want me there ASAP to imprint."

"I'll imprint your face with my fist if you keep this up, Owen!" Claire squirmed, feeling the roughness of Owen's stubble against her cheek.

"Containment crisis?"

"No!"

"Containment _analysis_?"

"NO! For God's sake, I found some files in the InGen database about Wu and I need to break into Tucker's office to get a better look!"

He let her go.

She turned, hands on her hips as she threw him a serious expression, "Don't say it."

"I don't like it."

"I _just_ told you not to say it!" Claire huffed, heading to the fridge. She needed a drink herself just then. Owen followed her, much to her irritation.

"You wanna break into Tucker's office? And what happens when you get caught?"

" _If_ I get caught," Claire snapped as she pulled a pricy bottle of red from the fridge door, "I'll just say I was looking for my jacket."

"You were looking for your jacket." Owen's tone dripped with condescension, "Why the hell would you be looking for your jacket in Tucker's office?"

She raised her eyebrows patiently at him, and it clicked.

"Oh no. _Hell_ no!"

"Nobody's going mention it if they think I'm sleeping with Tucker!" Claire uncorked the bottle and filled a glass with satisfaction, "They'd be too scared to lose their job."

"Agh…" Owen was clutching the bridge of his nose, eyes squinted shut as if in pain, "Just...go back and erase the part where you said 'sleeping with Tucker'!"

"I'm sorry." Claire crossed her arms with a look that suggested she was anything _but_ , "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

"No, it makes me _sick_! You can _forget_ it!"

"Well, what's _your_ idea for an excuse?"

"Excuse for _what_?" Owen had downed the remainder of his beer in an effort to shake the repulsive image from his head and was reaching for a second.

"For my presence in Tucker's office at two in the morning!"

"Oh, that." He twisted the top off hastily and gulped back with a sigh, "You can forget that, too."

"See? This is why I didn't want to tell you! You always overreact…"

"I do _not_ overreact! I react _perfectly_ ; hell, I _under_ -react to most of your hare-brained schemes for putting yourself on the chopping block" He undid one of his wrist cuffs as he spoke.

"Excuse me? I do _not_ put myself on the chopping block!" She scowled – offended, but not surprised. Owen had given her this speech before. In fact, it was one of his favorites.

"Oh yeah? What about last month when you went running off into the valley alone?"

"I was answering a distress signal!"

"So what? You took off without back-up, and you remember how well _that_ worked out?"

She glared at him, " _Don't_ show me the scar."

"Oh I'm _gonna_ show you the scar!" He was already unbuckling his belt, "In fact, every single time you go on about how great you are at handling yourself, I'm gonna take off my pants wherever we happen to be and show you _this_!"

"Whoa!"

The horrified yell came not from Claire, who was clutching her head in frustration, nor Owen, who had pulled down the corner of his boxer shorts to reveal a gleaming scar on his chiseled oblique.

No, it came from Stanley Simmons, who had obviously decided to come out of sulking/hiding at the worst possible time.

Owen and Claire were frozen in horror and embarrassment. Surprisingly, Owen spoke first, while Claire, ever the diplomat, was speechless.

"Stan," Owen raised his hands, eyebrows high in the expression he wore when placating a pack of snarling Raptors, "this is _not_ what it looks like!"

"Really?" Claire whispered, "That's the best you can come up with?"

Stan threw up his hands and stormed off, "This is _so_ going in my emancipation petition!"

"I was just showin' her my scar!" Owen protested fruitlessly, as Stan flipped him the bird over his shoulder in response, "Where are you going?"

"Back to the bathroom!" Stan yelled, swinging the door handle wide.

"Well, don't slam the…"

The cabin rattled.

"…door!" Owen tossed his other wrist cuff onto the table in frustration and re-adjusted his clothing, "What happened to sticking together for survival, huh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Claire placed an affected hand on her heart, "You want help from _me_ , the walking liability?" She batted wide, innocent eyes from behind her wine glass as Owen glared at her.

"If I help you break into Tucker's office, do you promise to help _me_ with that steaming bucket of hormones?"

She smiled, "Whoever said you couldn't be reasoned with?" She clinked her wine glass with his beer bottle and took a triumphant swig.

"That would be _you_ ," Owen muttered as Claire pranced off in victory, "the sheet-stealer."

* * *

They called in Barry to baby-sit, and Claire began her diplomacy lessons with Owen by forbidding him from the words 'baby-sit' when he informed a still sulking Stan that they were going out. Owen was instead advised to use the much more neutral 'keep you company'…not that it improved Stan's reaction any (his son threw a shoe at him – and Owen told him to work on his swing).

After a spectacular row about whether or not black should be worn on their 'mission', and a painstaking attempt at joint-strategizing, Owen and Claire decided to compromise.

Owen would call the shots at getting them in and out, while Claire would take the lead once they were inside the office.

And they were _both_ wearing black.

"And you wanted us to fork over five grand a month for couple's therapy." Owen tsked as they made their way on foot to the darkened central building, "I _told_ you that kayak was a better investment!"

"Will you _please_ stop talking?" Claire hissed, taking up the rear as they dodged security lights and ducked behind a flowerbed as a guard strolled by.

"This is ridiculous." She muttered as she crouched beside Owen, "I managed the park from this building for years! I shouldn't have to sneak around like some kind of…"

"Ninja?" Owen offered in a whisper.

"Criminal." Claire shot back with a scowl.

"I dunno." He appraised her from the corner of his eye as they made a break for the building, "I happen to find this new, sneaky Claire kinda sexy!"

"I should've seen this coming." Claire murmured.

"You always act like such a bossy control freak! It's nice to see you looking…"

"Oh, shut up!" Claire pulled out her cell phone as Owen kept a look-out by a utility entrance, "Lowery. It's me. We're at the door."

"Claire, I _really_ wish you wouldn't do this." Her longtime friend sounded sleepy and nervous.

"Just open up." She whispered insistently.

A long sigh sounded over the phone. "Fine. But I'd better get those figurines you promised me!"

"Yes, yes, the genuine collector's set of prehistoric reptiles!" Claire assured him with an eye-roll for Owen, "I had Celia order them an hour ago. I'll send you the invoice."

"Do _not_ send me the invoice! That's like, proof of bribery!" Lowery protested, and Claire could hear his fingers clacking as he spoke, "Just…hand me the receipt over lunch tomorrow."

The door buzzed open.

"Okay, we're in." Claire confirmed as Owen did a cursory sweep before ushering her inside, "And Lowery? If you so much as breathe a word about this to _anyone_ …"

"I know. Owen'll sic his Raptors on me."

"Oh! Hey!" Owen, having overhead, signaled at Claire excitedly, "Tell him I'll sic _Stan_ on him instead!"

Claire promptly hung up with a dry scowl. "Can we just…get to the office?"

Owen extended his hand, motioning for his girlfriend to lead the way. She huffed and stomped past him.

"Just like old times!" He called after her with a grin.

They made it to Tucker's office, which Claire infiltrated with another phone call to Lowery. The technician had access to all major control panels from his network which he ran from the safety of a steel-enforced bunker. Although he'd agreed to join the mop-up crew, Lowery hadn't forgiven or forgotten InGen's part in the Indominus Rex incident. It was the main reason he was helping Claire.

That and a $10,000 dollar set of figurines. Thank goodness Masrani Corps were funding Claire's investigation.

After Lowery jammed the cameras on a loop, Claire began her search of Tucker's personal computer. She'd seen a suspicious file open during one of her insufferable meetings with Tucker, and she was fairly certain she could hack it.

Owen, meanwhile, roamed around the office, muttering to himself about the décor.

"It's like a caveman's hunting lodge in here!" He complained as he fingered a giant T-rex tooth on display, "Except, you know, Tucker's never hunted anything that didn't wear a pinstripe skirt in his life."

Claire tuned out his grumbling, eyes wide as she successfully bypassed Tucker's security password and accessed the file.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Oh my god…" She whispered.

"What is it?" Owen left off mocking Tucker and was at her side in an instant. His face grew sober as he read over her shoulder.

"It says here that Wu was two-timing InGen and Masrani Corps with private investors from the military." Claire scrolled down.

"We kinda had that figured, no?"

"Yes, but what Masrani Corps is hazy on is who is hiding Wu – the investors or the military." Claire explained, "When he took off with the embryos, it was reported that Hoskins was involved. And according to this file, that seems to be the case."

Owen obviously wanted to say something bad about Hoskins, but the man had been eaten by a Raptor. Karma had done its job.

"This a list of all the embryos Wu illegally made off with," She pointed at the screen, "But these? These weren't on InGen's original list."

"Which means Wu is somewhere with access and funding to keep pumping out new species."

"Not new." Claire highlighted a portion of text, "These are the DNA components of the Indominus Rex." She looked up at Owen with fear in her eyes, "He's going to make another one."

Owen's jaw clenched grimly, "And Tucker's gonna help him."

 _ **I'm glad to see how many people are already following this story. Hopefully it's as fun to read as it is to write. Any ideas for things you'd like to see pan out are welcome, as are reviews, be they naughty or nice! - Tyler**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hello, all. I know this was a horribly long wait between updates, but I do have two very valid excuses. One: my three year-old spilled water on my laptop and I had to get it serviced (still works, but some of the keys, like ENTER for crying out loud, sporadically don't work). Two: I up and moved back to the UK after six years in Mexico…with a three year-old. So between the jet lag and the sticky keys, this was the best I could do, friends. Hope it delivers, and PLEASE leave me some love because you have NO idea what a bitch it was to write this at three AM with a crying toddler and no freaking enter key! Thank you. - Tyler**_

* * *

The last thing Owen and Claire expected to find when they arrived back at their cabin was Phil the Social Worker sitting pompously at their kitchen table. To his right sat Stanley, wearing a smug expression. Barry was nowhere to be seen.

"Um…hello." Claire shucked off her jacket and nudged Owen as he entered, "Owen, we have a visitor."

"Oh hey." Owen slung his gun belt over the coat rack, "Phil, right? Nose looks great. Sorry 'bout that, by the way."

Phil's eyes were blackened, and the bridge of his nose sported a white strip of tape.

"Your intimidation tactics are not going to distract from the issue at hand, Mr. Grady!" He insisted, "Have a seat."

"Have a seat?" Owen's eyebrows hit the roof.

"Just…" Claire tugged the broad man down to join her as she sat. She cast him a tight-lipped smile, and he rolled his eyes.

"What can we do for you, Phil?" Claire took up the torch.

"I received a distress call from Stanley about an hour ago." The young, pudgy man pressed his fingers together, "Apparently, he was attacked by what he claims is Mr. Grady's pet Velociraptor."

"She's not a _pet_." Owen said evenly, "Pets are housetrained – and loyal." Here he glared at Stan, who snootily avoided his gaze.

"According to Stanley," Phil continued snottily, "not only did you forbid him from shooting the animal, but you then _punished_ him for attempting to defend himself."

"No, I punished him for attempting to _kill_ himself!" Owen lost his cool momentarily, "That Raptor was backing down and he took a shot at it after I told him to get inside the cabin."

"Would anyone like a drink?" Claire, feeling incredibly uncomfortable in a confrontation to which she felt she did not belong, moved to stand.

Owen's hand gripped hers and he pulled her, not ungently, back into her seat. His eyes were still trained on Phil as the man continued.

"After the Raptor attack, Stanley then states that you left him unprotected in the cabin under the watch of an unqualified caretaker."

"Barry!" Owen clarified in disbelief, "I left him with _Barry_! You know, the dinosaur trainer? That being the only real threat on this God-forsaken island besides mosquitos and social workers, I kinda figured he was _qualified_!"

"Stanley also mentioned that you engaged in highly inappropriate sexual behavior in your kitchen…."

"Oh for God's sake!" Owen threw up his hands and looked, dumbfounded, at his son, "Really?" As Stan purposely avoided eye contact, Owen turned to Phil, "I was showing Claire my scar! Here, look, you wanna see?"

"Owen!" Claire slammed a hand over his as he moved to unbuckle his belt. Phil gaped.

"Mr. Grady, do you think this is a _joke_?"

"No, jokes are funny!" Owen snapped, "This is just _ridiculous_!"

"The negligence you've shown today gives me no choice, Mr. Grady!" Phil's assertive voice was threatened with a nasal squeak, "I'm taking Stanley into custody of the state, barring a court hearing!"

"That is _absurd_." Claire couldn't help herself. They were trapped on the most dangerous island in the world, and the idiot honestly believed that Stan would be safer with _him_ than with Owen.

"Seriously?" Owen squinted at his son, "You really wanna take your chances with _him_?"

Stan bristled uncomfortably, squirming in his chair and still avoiding Owen's eyes.

"I mean, if that's what you want, Stan, then by all means," Owen waved an obliging hand at the door, "go bunk down with Mr. Welfare here."

"It's _Cummings_!" Phil pointed out snidely, "Phil _Cummings_!"

"But when the shit hits the fan, and it _will_ ," Owen stood up from the table, planting both hands flat as he leaned in, "and if I have to bail your ass out, you ain't gonna _have_ one by the time I'm finished with you. You got that?"

"Owen!" Claire gasped. Phil gasped.

Stan was strangely silent.

"Phil, you can leave now." Owen ground out, eyes still trained on his offspring.

"I have a legal obligation to…"

"Get _out_ , Phil!" Owen's voice rose dangerously.

The social worker rose from his chair and straightened his clothing.

"You coming, Stanley?"

Claire's eyes darted between Owen, who was staring out the window with his hands planted on his hips, to Stan, who was heaving angry breaths and glaring at the floor.

It was obvious who had won the first major Grady-Simmons stare-down.

"Well, you know where to find me." Phil collected himself coldly, "My emergency hotline is on the contact list that Myra…"

"Goodnight, Mr. Cummings!" Claire pitched enthusiastically as she saw Owen's jaw clench in his window pane reflection. She ushered him out the door and bolted it behind him.

The tension in the room was too much for Claire, who had long abandoned family drama. She excused herself under the pretense of exhaustion and retreated to the bedroom.

It was only after she had showered and brushed out her bob cut that Owen came to join her.

Well, not so much _her_. Claire looked up from the dresser as he crashed, face-first, onto the bed.

Wisely, she continued her nightly routine. If a year of Owen Grady had taught her one thing, it was that the man didn't talk till he was ready. And silence was the best prompt by far.

Sure enough, two minutes later, a muffled voice rang out.

"I think I'm having a heart attack."

Claire rolled her eyes as she pulled her sleek nightgown over her head, "You are _not_ having a heart attack."

"A stroke, then."

"You're fine." She assured Owen callously, pulling back the covers as she moved into bed. Claire was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of woman. Owen was the opposite. It was yet another point of contention between them.

" _Why can't we just watch one episode of Two and a Half Men?" Owen would complain after slipping into bed alongside her…at one o'clock in the morning._

" _Because I'm already asleep, Owen!" Claire would snap, "Plus I have a seven o'clock meeting with…"_

" _You're so boring! You never want to spend time with me."_

 _The debate would dig itself into the ground. Claire would finally agree to watch an episode of Two and a Half Men ('with Charlie Sheen, not that metrosexual Aston Martin guy') to keep Owen happy – although she'd fall asleep halfway through and he would tease her about it in the morning._

"Where's Stan?" Claire regretted the question as soon as it came out.

"On the pull-out." The response was warbled into the pillows.

"I should go check if he needs anything…"

"Oh he needs something alright." Owen grumbled as he rolled into his back and pulled off his boots, "A good kick in the pants."

"I can't believe he thought _Phil_ could help him." Claire agreed, "That man couldn't protect a bug from a flyswatter."

"Kid's got too much time on his hands." Owen declared, pulling off his over-shirt, "I gotta head out to the breach tomorrow and oversee repairs. Think you could take Stan to work with you?"

Claire almost said no. She _really_ wanted to refuse, to come up with an excuse, _any_ excuse to avoid dragging a surly, ill-tempered teenager around her workplace. In fact, a very plausible reason for refusal was on the tip of her tongue when…

"Hey, Stan!" Owen was yelling through the door, "I'm taking off my shirt now! Just wanted to clue you in, you know, in case that makes you feel uncomfortable!"

"What is wrong with you?" Claire hissed in disbelief. Owen threw his sweaty t-shirt at her in response. She caught it with a tight-lipped expression.

"And then later on," Owen continued to call, "Claire and I are probably gonna engage in some highly inappropriate sexual behavior! I really hope that doesn't bother you…"

"Okay, I'll take him! I'll take him!" She snapped, "Just…stop antagonizing him. You're making it worse!"

Owen grinned, "I love it when I win."

Claire scowled, "Just…make sure they fix the breach."

He tipped his head with a touch of his fingers, "Yes, ma'am."

She quirked a smile, "Now…what was that about…highly inappropriate sexual behavior?"

* * *

When Claire Dearing set her sights on accomplishing something, she handled it with precision. A gleaming track record of organization set Claire head and shoulders above others in her field.

Yes, there was nothing Claire couldn't do when she set her mind to her it.

That was the phrase she repeated to herself over and over as she came face to face with Stanley Simmons at her kitchen table.

"Good morning, Stan!" Claire said breezily as she pulled on her suit jacket, "Oh, I see you found the cereal. That's…"

Stan was eating an entire mixing bowl of Cheerios. Two empty milk cartons were crumpled on the counter. He had headphones in his ears, but still looked up frostily as Claire entered.

"…that's good. I don't really…I'm not a breakfast person. So, okay…." She fumbled over her words, _Get it together, Claire_. "Did um, did Owen mention that you'd be joining me today?"

Stan's face grew even more contemptuous as he glared into the empty milk carton, "He left at five AM. Made sure to make as much noise as was humanly possible."

"Right." Claire kicked herself. Owen had left at the crack of dawn. He'd insisted the team was assembling early. Claire knew he was probably avoiding his son.

She didn't blame him.

"Okay, well, you and I are going to have a great time today." She cringed at how patronizing she sounded, "I'm going to be working in the control room, but I can show you around the compound, if you'd like. There are some amazing…" She drifted off as Stan picked up the still half-full mixing bowl and threw it in the sink, "…um, assets we've successfully contained that I'm sure you'd be interested in and…."

"Where's the T-rex?"

Claire raised her eyebrows at the floor, "That is a…very good question. I can tell you more about it on the way to HQ. We really should get going."

"I'm staying here." Stan announced in an almost bored tone as he settled on the sofa.

"Stanley…"

"With Owen and Barry out working the breach," The teenager began scribbling in his notepad, "there's no guarantee I'm protected. You hiding a gun under that blouse?"

"Excuse me?" Claire squinted, offended.

"I'm not exactly itching for a third round with your _assets_." Stan re-positioned his headphones, "I'm staying here."

He looked up, annoyed, as the petite redhead pulled the earbuds out in front of him.

"Look, I'm not thrilled about this either. But I promised Owen I would take you with me today, and breaking promises makes me very, _very_ unhappy. So," Claire straightened, composing herself, "Stanley – what's it going to take to get you on board?"

* * *

Claire pulled her company car up outside the run-down theme park rides.

"This is a bad idea." She breathed, half to herself, half to the young man in the seat beside her, "Alright, so, these were some of the rides used in the park. Over there you can see the…"

Stan had already unbuckled his seat and opened the car door.

"Hey! Where are you…Stanley!" Claire watched in disbelief as he jumped out of the car and raced to the machines. "Great." She slapped aside her seatbelt and followed him, "An arcade full of holographs doesn't interest him, but a broken-down ride is exciting."

Claire's heels crunched under gravel as she caught up to Stan. The young man was surveying a faded sign with something bright in his eyes.

"What's this one?"

"That is… _was_ …the Gyrosphere ride." Claire cleared her throat as Stan began to skirt around, "People used to take them through an area with over thirty different species of prehistoric herbivores. The Gyrospheres…"

"Where are all those dinosaurs now?" Stan ran his hand over a dusty globe.

"Most of them were killed by the Indominus Rex or eaten by the carnivores when they escaped their confines." Claire spoke softly, sadly. She remembered a dying Brachiosaurus, heaving its last breath beneath her fingers.

"Where are the carnivores?" Stan brushed a palm over the filthy control panel on the Gyrosphere and jumped back in surprise when it opened, "Wow. It still works!"

"We've driven most of them off to the South side of the island and have made good progress on a wall to keep them there." Claire stepped over a pile of rubble and almost tripped in the process, "But things are far from stable. As you've seen first-hand, we have no way of containing the Pterodactyls, and breaches in the wall are becoming more frequent."

"Uh huh," Stan had climbed inside the Gyrosphere and was poking around at the controls, "So where's the T-rex?"

Claire glanced at her watch. She was twenty minutes late and counting. Claire had never been late a day in her life. Lowery had probably called in the cavalry by now.

"According to its tracker, it's stayed down South with the other carnivores, although it makes an appearance every now and then. We should really be getting back to HQ now…Stan?" Claire suddenly realized that the Gyrosphere had slid smoothly shut. She tapped on the glass, "Stan? What are you doing?"

"You know, you seem nice – a little OCD, but nice." Stan's voice was faint through the heavy glass as he strapped himself in, "I don't know _what_ you see in Owen."

"Okay, Stan? This is _not_ funny!" Claire pounded on the glass as the Gyrosphere began to roll slowly, "Get out, _right_ now!"

"Just wanna take a little tour that isn't drenched in condescension."

"Excuse me? I am _not_ condescending!"

Stan smirked – it was the first time Claire had seen him smile – and pushed the throttle into action.

"Stan! Stanley, I'm warning you!" She took a deep breath and determined a course of action. All rides could be manually shut down from the control panel. Claire hurried to the dusty controls and tapped frantically at the buttons.

"God dammnit!"

Nothing responded. The Gyrosphere kept on rolling.

Claire reached under the panel and came up with a wad of snipped wires.

Stan saluted her from the Gyrosphere as he took off.

"Shit!" Claire lost her cool. She only saw one option.

She jumped into another globe and took off after him.

* * *

"Hey, Randall!" Owen squinted in the early morning sun, "Instead of adding another ten meters at the top, you should use the extra wiring to double up the fencing."

"It's an electric fence, Mr, Grady. One layer is all it needs." Randall, Tucker's head of construction, stared at the blueprints in hands dismissively.

Owen fought back frustration. Masrani Corps had put him in charge of containment issues on Isla Nublar, while InGen were stubbornly insisting on Randall's involvement in all matters. The resulting overlap of authority led to a lot of butted heads and wasted time.

"You can pump as much voltage as you want into this fence." Owen continued, motioning to the construction workers repairing a smattering of holes, "That didn't stop those Allosauruses and it sure as hell ain't gonna stop a T-Rex if it decides to…"

"See, there you go again." Randall's hard hat bobbed obnoxiously, "You keep spouting all that doomsday crap about the big, bad T-Rex…"

"Have you ever _seen_ a real, live Tyrannosaurus, Randall?" Owen demanded, and the man handed his blueprints over to a suit-clad assistant.

"No, I haven't, Grady…"

"Well, _I_ have, up close and personal, and let me tell you something." Owen snapped, "Big and bad don't even begin to _cover_ it. Now if you can't…"

"Always gotta play that card, don't you?" Randall scoffed, adopting an exaggerated southern accent dropped to ridiculously low octaves for the next part of his speech, "'Oh, I helped kill the Indominus Rex. I'm such a tough guy…'"

"I don't sound like that."

"You just think you're so much better than the rest of us, don't you?"

" _I_ think," Owen had had enough, and he threw modesty aside as he raised his voice at a small crowd of workers who began to gather, "that out of everyone here, I'm the only one who knows the feel of hot, putrid dinosaur breath inches from his face! I think that of all you fancy suits, I'm the only person who's gone head to head with a prehistoric carnivore and come out on top! I think I'm the _only_ one who successfully imprinted on the Raptors who helped mop up InGen's epic lab disaster…"

"Well, don't toot your own horn!" Was all Randall could sputter.

"You think I like stating the obvious, Randall?" Owen threw up his hands in frustration, "All I'm asking is that you listen to the voice of experience for once in your life, and double-wire the goddamn fence!"

His boot swiped a path through rolls of ruined fencing as he kicked it aside. Owen stormed away from the breach site, chest heaving as he attempted to calm himself.

His cell phone was buzzing again. Owen bit back a curse as he checked the caller ID and saw that it was Celia, Claire's personal assistant.

"Hello." Owen only answered when he saw Randall starting towards him, holding up a gratifying finger to warn the man off, "Grady here."

"Owen," Celia was a no-nonsense (and, in Owen's opinion, no-manners) kind of woman. Claire really seemed to appreciate that.

"Are you with Claire?"

"No." Owen narrowed his eyes at the dirt beneath his feet, "Why?"

* * *

"Okay." Claire muttered to herself as she yanked the levers in her Gyrosphere, "Okay. This is nothing you can't handle."

So far they were almost a mile off from the park's center. Claire had tried to cut Stan off more than once, but the kid was annoyingly talented at steering the giant glass spheres and evaded her at every turn.

By Claire's calculations, they were headed east. She supposed Stan wanted to get a look at the island, but they were already skirting the wall. Claire knew she had to re-route them before they reached the three-mile long fence. That part of the wall hadn't yet been constructed and it was horrendously unsafe.

Plus, fencing meant Owen. And Claire _really_ didn't think he would appreciate her and Stan playing Gyro-tag next to the breach.

Formulating a new strategy, Claire swiped at her dashboard and pulled up Stan's Gyrosphere number. The spheres had built-in communication links that allowed fellow riders to share their experience with each other.

She tapped the glass on her sphere impatiently as it patched her through to Stan. He looked up in surprise and, mercifully, didn't ignore her call.

"Okay, you want a _real_ tour?" She spoke into her mic, "I know this place inside out. I can show you the old park, the I-Rex cage, the aviary, everything. But you have to promise to follow my lead."

Stan's lips twisted as he considered Claire's offer. Then, he nodded. She sagged in relief but didn't let it show.

"Lead the way, captain." Stan slowed down his sphere and pulled it back along Claire's flank. She saw him shoot her a smug smirk, but ignored it.

"Okay." Claire led them in a U-turn away from the wall, "First stop, the aviary."

It had been a full year since she had been back there. The last time Claire had seen the aviary, she'd watched Mr. Masrani's helicopter crash through its roof in flames. Claire hadn't even had time to grieve for her friend as she and Owen had been chased by a flock of Pterodactyls which had tormented them ever since.

"Whoa." Stan muttered as they rolled towards the enormous dome.

"That's far enough." Claire motioned for him to stop, "The aviary's been swept for reptiles, but every now and then they like to come back to old stomping grounds."

"Is it true…" Stan's voice actually sounded just a tad less snarky, "Did you and Owen really kill the Indominus Rex?"

"Not exactly." Claire stated flatly, "Owen and his raptors held it off while I lured a T-Rex into fighting it. Then, the Mosasaurus ate it."

"What's the Mosasaurus?"

Claire smiled at him, "Our second stop."

It was three PM by the time Claire and Stan finally pulled into HQ. She'd long since switched off her phone to avoid the barrage of frantic calls. She'd mustered up the courage to send Owen a text telling him that all was well, but she hadn't had the nerve (or the time) to ring him up. Claire had promised Stan a worthy tour and she had outdone herself. They'd circled the entire circumference of the old and new park (within the limits of the wall, of course). Stan had gotten a first-hand look at the mighty Mosasaurus from the filthy aquarium glass. He'd stroked the rough hide of a Bracchiosaurus, and traced the giant footprint of the I-Rex from where Claire's nephews had lost it at the falls.

"I take it back." Stan muttered as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Claire narrowed her eyes distractedly.

"Take what back?"

"The 'Masrani's weakest link'." He appraised her coldly even as he spoke the warm words, "That was the coolest tour ever."

Despite herself, Claire blushed as she got out of her car, "Well, thank you."

"The skyline was awesome."

Claire had let him ride the skyline. Well, more like she'd accompanied him after Stan had climbed in against her warnings.

"And really, really dangerous." She pointed out.

"And therefore awesome."

"Speaking of dangerous…" Claire ground to a halt, clamping a hand on Stan's shoulder as she caught sight of Owen. The man looked to be in the middle of organizing a search party.

"Back away…slowly." Claire whispered to Stan, who she noted was as ashen-faced as she was. It surprised her. She didn't think he cared. But when she felt Stan begin to tip-toe backwards in tandem with her, Claire realized she wasn't the only one who didn't fancy being on Owen Grady's bad side.

Unfortunately, right at the moment her hand slipped around the handle of her car door, Owen's eyes met hers.

Claire heaved a steadying sigh as Stanley winced at her.

"I'll let you do the talking."

* * *

 _ **DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW! I usually let you delinquents off with a favorite or a follow, but after the hell getting this up here put me through, if you don't leave me AT LEAST a one-liner...I KILL YOU!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**See? You see how you inspire me, my readers? Happy Tyler equals faster updates! In the words of our favorite pain-in-the-ass Stanley Simmons, 'It's a win-win situation'. You keep giving feedback, I keep cranking out the chapters. Sound fair? IT HAD BETTER!**_

 _ **PS: Enjoy. - Tyler**_

* * *

"Rise and shine, kid."

The first thing Stanley Simmons saw when he was jolted from sleep was a stone-faced Owen Grady standing over him.

It wasn't exactly the nicest of sights at…

Stan checked his phone.

"It's five in the morning." He complained, although it came out in a sort of squeak that reminded him he was still in Owen's bad books.

"I know." Owen tossed him his clothes, "Get dressed. We're leaving in five minutes."

Stan blinked back sleep and glared, "What?" He watched Owen hunt around in the darkened room, "Why?"

"Well apparently," His father dug underneath the sofa as he spoke, " _someone_ is very high maintenance. And since Claire's made it clear she'd rather drink from the milk carton for the rest of her life than babysit your ass again," Owen tossed Stan what he'd been looking for (his shoes), "you're coming with _me_ to work."

Stan paled despite himself, "Oh no."

"Oh yes." Owen's tight-lipped expression suggested he was far from thrilled, "You wanted the kid gloves off? Congratulations. Now get a move on."

Stan opened his mouth to protest. Before he could do so, however, the wind was knocked from him by the third item Owen threw at him.

It was a motorcycle helmet.

* * *

The ride to wherever they were going was tense. Aside from barking at Stan to hold on properly, Owen had kept eerily silent. Stan let his frustration simmer into the cushioned sides of his helmet. The helmet smelt like lilac. It was obviously Claire's. Owen wasn't even _wearing_ a helmet and probably didn't own one. Stan might have bitched about the double standard if he wasn't still cowed by the aftermath of the previous day's tour.

Owen had gone nuclear, exploding at the pair of them before Claire had neutralized the Grady bomb by calmly explaining that they'd done some sight-seeing and lost track of time. Stan had been surprised (and, although he didn't want to admit it, grateful) that she'd covered for him. Unfortunately, it seemed his not-so-old man wasn't as stupid as Stan thought he looked. Owen had asked Claire what Stan could only guess were a few choice, loaded questions before he pinned Stan with a furious look.

Stan had spent the rest of the day fingering the speed dial to Phil Cummings and waiting for the confrontation. But Owen hadn't brought it up…until now.

 _The bastard was just waiting for me to let my guard down_ , Stan thought bitterly, _God knows what he's got planned. Maybe he's gonna let his little Raptor friend use me as a chew toy._

Dawn was kissing the hilltops of Isla Nublar by the time Owen's bike pulled up outside a row of enclosures. Stan frowned as he yanked off his helmet.

"This isn't the fence."

"So you _did_ learn something on your little tour." Owen said coldly as he swung his legs off the bike, "Come on."

Swallowing the urge to throw his helmet on the ground and reminding himself that he was too old for tantrums, Stan grit his teeth and followed Owen. Sleep-deprived and irritated, he clenched his fists by his sides as the former naval officer punched in a code to open an enclosure.

"What are we doing here?" Stan demanded, slapping at a mosquito, "No one's even _out_ here yet!"

"I gave the muck crew the morning off." Owen strode through the gate.

"Why? So we could have some father-son bonding time?" Stan snapped sullenly, dragging his feet after Owen.

"No." Owen replied. Stan hadn't expected him to. "That'll come later, when I don't feel like sticking my foot up your ass."

"If you'd just signed the stupid custody waiver, neither of us would have to suffer." Stan muttered bitterly, stepping over a fallen log and gagging on a foul stench, "Ugh! What is that?"

"That, Stanley," Owen came to halt in front of a field of brown, steaming piles, "is dinosaur excrement. Brachio, mainly. Although we did squeeze a few other herbivores in here with'em. All these piles need to go into one so they can be moved."

"I'm seriously going to hurl." Stan cupped a hand over his nose and mouth, backing away from the field of feces. A strong arm swung out, blocking his escape route.

"Oh the fun's just getting started." Owen's lopsided grin was far from reassuring, "See, I figure after the shit you pulled with Claire, _this_ ," He hefted two shovels, "is poetic justice."

A light flicked on in Stan's mind. His heart raced as he tempered panic with anger.

"Forget it, Owen!" He yelled, "There is no way I'm shoveling shit just to appease your…your sadistic tendencies!"

"Sadistic?" Owen laughed, much to Stan's embarrassment. If there was anything he hated, it was not being taken seriously.

"That's right! You're a sadist! You _grounded_ me for…"

"Oh give me a break! You're in the middle of the jungle– there's nothing to _ground_ you from except your own stupidity!"

"I'm out of here!" Stan hollered, rage pumping through him as he attempted to sidestep Owen.

"Look," His father raised both hands, voice annoyingly calm and eyebrows raised, "this is happening whether you like it or not. And a temper tantrum is _not_ gonna change the fact that…"

"A temper tantrum?!"

"Just…lower your voice!"

"Or what?" Stan screamed, "A big, bad dinosaur will eat me? This is the _Brachiosaurus_ enclosure, Owen, and YES, I PAID ATTENTION!"

"Then you _also_ know that if you continue to scream, there's gonna be a squad here before you can blink." Owen's hands were on his hips as he squinted at his son, "Like I said, kid, this is happening. Either you shovel the shit, or you wear it. But unless you want an audience for either of those options, I suggest you shut up and take it like a man." He extended a shovel with a raise of his eyebrows.

Stan heaved furious breaths as he processed his options, "When you say 'wear it'…"

"I'll drag your ass through each and every one of those piles." Owen clarified as casually as if discussing the weather.

That settled it. Stan snatched the shovel, face burning. The smug smirk of triumph on Owen's face only made Stan's _second_ loss in their battle of wills even more painful.

The teenager stormed to the furthest pile, "Just…stick to your own freaking side!" His yell echoed in the humid air of the enclosure.

"How do you wanna work this?" Stan could hear the laughter in his father's voice, "Every other turd is yours?"

 _Ignore him. Just ignore him, Stan!_

"Should we keep score?"

Stan rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and stuck his shovel into the closest mass of excrement. The sensation made him gag.

"Maybe we can color-code it." Owen continued as he began hefting shovel-fulls, "You know, browns and blacks and…algae-colored. I'm guessing that's all the grass."

Stan tried to ignore Owen's wise-cracking. He really did. He focused on the hot rage the humiliation filled him with, letting it fuel him to toss shovel-full after shovel-full of dinosaur waste. Stan focused on the blood pumping in his ears, on the angry voice inside him telling how unfair this was and all the creative ways he was going to exact revenge once it was over.

Minutes turned to hours. Sweat dripped down Stan's back and face, stinging his eyes with salty droplets. The piles grew smaller, then disappeared one by one.

Yes, Stan tried his darndest to ignore Owen. But it got harder and harder as the morning wore on. At one point, an ice-cold Coke was shoved in his face with a muttered remark about not wanting to get dehydrated. A half-hour later and Stan had his sweater hood shoved up with a reminder about sunburn. He always rolled his eyes or jerked away or barked out his desire to be left alone, but it was getting less and less easy to brush it off.

Stan panicked when, about three hours in, he realized his anger was gradually morphing into guilt. Images of Claire assaulted Stan; the enthusiasm in her voice as she described their surroundings, the poignant glaze in her eyes as she walked him through the ruins of her once-beloved park…

The stricken expression on her face as Owen berated her for worrying him, as he yelled at her for something Claire had really had no part in at all.

And Owen…Owen _had_ been worried. No. _Worried sick_ were the words he'd screamed at them. At both of them. Not just at Claire.

Stan dug forcefully, hating himself and hating Owen and hating the world. A bright smile flashed through his mind, white teeth and warm eyes and soft hands.

 _I miss you, Mom._

 _No._

Stan threw down his shovel violently. "I'm not _doing_ this anymore!" He yelled, at nobody in particular, "I'm _done_!" If he realized he was shaking fiercely, he didn't acknowledge it. He didn't fucking care.

"Okay." Owen came out of nowhere, voice cautious, "It's fine. We'll go now."

"Don't look at me like that! I'm not one of your fucking Raptors!" Stan spat, clenching his fists as he felt tears threatening to spill – to his absolute horror. What made matters worse was the grim, almost sad look on Owen's face told Stan the man had been anticipating (maybe even _facilitating_ ) this breakdown.

"Just take it easy." Owen put his own shovel down and extended a hand, palm up, towards his son, "Let's call it a day, huh?" The pity in his eyes made Stan want to puke. It also sort of made him want to grab the hand being offered him and squeeze his father in a desperate embrace.

Stan was still fighting off various and frightening urges, when a blur darted past.

Owen's eyes widened, "Stan, watch…"

He didn't finish his sentence. A giant tail smacked into his face, knocking him to the ground. Owen stayed there.

Stan was pulverized with fear as the Raptor turned on him. It was a sickly shade of purple – not one of Owen's. Its throat clicked and its eyes gleamed as it advanced. Stan backed up, crouching slowly as he picked up his shovel.

"I almost wish you were blue." He muttered, his sweat turning cold as he continued to back up slowly. A rustling beside him alerted him to the presence of another Raptor. It sidled up beside its purple compadre and advanced slowly on Stan.

The Raptors hissed loudly, setting Stan's eardrums alight with pain. His feet hit concrete and he knew he was near the mouth of the enclosure. Stan had seen how the panel worked and figured he might have a shot of closing it before the Raptors got him – but that would mean locking Owen inside with them. And from the looks of things, these Raptors weren't playing on the man's team.

A sudden snarling caused Stan to throw a quick look over his shoulder and curse. His exit had been cut off by a third Raptor.

It all happened so quickly.

The first Raptor lunged. Stan whacked it with the shovel. Its tail caught him in the chest. The air left his body. Stan barely had time to catch his breath before he was grabbed up in a strong pair of jaws. Teeth pierced his sides and he screamed in pain as the Raptor shook his like a ragdoll before tossing him onto the ground. Bleeding and dazed, Stan watched as it leapt for his throat.

And then all of a sudden, he was being yanked by the scruff of his sweater and tossed in a hole he didn't know existed. The sewer grate. Someone had lifted up the sewer grate and thrown Stan inside. Flat on his back with his face inches from the rusty bars, Stan watched in horror as the sunlight was blocked by a body laying over him atop the grate.

It was Owen. He'd put himself in the path of the Raptor leaping for Stan, and was now groaning in pain as it pinned him with its claws.

Panic overwhelmed Stan at the sight of Owen's face pressed into the grate above him, eyes clenched shut in agony. Stan abandoned all pretense of indifference as Owen's blood dripped onto his face.

"Dad!" He yelled frantically, pushing at the grate with all his might, "Dad, come _on_! Move!"

Above him, Owen twisted and thrashed, moans of pain escaping through grit teeth as he wrestled with the Raptor. It made a dive for his neck, and Owen struggled with all his might to keep his throat an inch way from the snapping jaws of death.

It was a losing struggle.

And then suddenly, a guttural clicking filled the air from a distance. And as quickly as the Raptors came, they were gone.

Owen rolled off the gutter grate just as Stan gave a mighty kick with both feet. The teenager leapt out and rushed to his father as Owen clutched his side in agony.

"Oh my god…" Stan panicked at the sight of blood oozing from between the fingers Owen clamped over his ribs, "Okay. Okay, just…"

"Call Claire!" Owen gasped out between grunts of pain.

"Right. Right, yeah, totally." Stan swallowed the bile in his throat and pulled out his phone. It took him a moment of fumbling to realize an inconvenient truth, "I don't have her number!"

"Agh!" Owen rolled onto his back, eyes clenched shut, "My waistcoat pocket…cell phone…"

Stan obeyed frantically, digging out Owen's beat-up smart phone and speed-dialing Claire.

"Okay, it's ringing." His knees dug into the blood-stained concrete, "Claire! Listen, you guys gotta get out here _now_! Owen's hurt – there were Raptors…we're in the Brachio paddock!...Yeah, just hurry!" He hung up the phone with shaky fingers. "Okay, she's on her way with a team of…oh my god, you're _really_ bleeding!"

"Those raptors…" Owen shoved himself up on his elbows, "They were after _you_! You've gotta get out of here, Stanley! You can't stay here!"

"What?" The boy turned red at the suggestion, "What are you talking about? I'm not the one bleeding out on the ground!"

"There's only one raptor pack on the island, you idiot, and you tried to shoot the Alpha!" Owen yelled, eyes flaring open as he gripped Stan's collar, "This might _look_ bad, but it's a paper cut compared to what it could've been. That raptor wasn't trying to _kill_ me. It was trying to _move_ me. It wanted _you_! Now do as you're told for once in your life and GET BACK TO HQ!"

Doing as he was told was not something Stan was accustomed to – or enjoyed. But he liked the idea of being eaten by Raptors – or strangled by Owen – even less. So he grit his teeth and went with another strategy.

"What about you? I can't just leave you here!"

"Claire will bring the medics…" Owen winced as if on cue, "I'll be fine. Just _go_!"

"How? I have no idea where the compound is!" _I don't want to leave you. I'm scared_. The thought barely made it to Stan's consciousness before he snuffed it out in disgust.

"Ugh, just follow the trail, Stanley!" Owen yelled as a pair of giant Brachiosauruses congregated curiously, "Jesus, do I need to hold your hand all the way back to headquarters? I thought you actually _learned_ something on your little Gyro joyride!"

Stan's face flushed as Owen carried on. He felt like he was being scolded for a bad grade. He was spared further embarrassment by the distant sound of shrieking echoing outside the paddock.

"Shit. They're outside." Owen gripped his son's shoulder, and Stan grunted as he helped the man to his feet, "Stan, you see that red button by the panel? You gotta hit it – that'll lock down the enclosure."

"You mean lock us inside?"

"Those Raptors are hunting you. I can't let you go back alone." Owen hobbled to a fallen tree stump, still cradling his side, "Better in here with the veggie-mongers than out there with those things."

Stan didn't like that at all, "But Claire said _no one_ engages the Raptors. There's no current functional strategy. We might be stuck in here for _days_!"

"Or weeks." Owen agreed calmly. Stan couldn't tell if he was joking. "Now close the damn gate before those bastards get the jump on us again!"

Hating every minute of it, Stanley stormed over to the control panel and punched the button forcefully. A loud clang caused the mild-mannered Brachios to moan in alarm as the gate rolled shut.

"Great." Stan kicked the metal as he muttered to himself, "This is just great. No food, no water, nothing but dino-crap for miles…"

"Would you quit whining?" Owen snapped, "Now get over here. I need your help."

"And a grouchy old invalid." Stan continued under his breath as he stomped every foot of the path back to his father, "This day could _not_ get any worse."

"Here." Owen ignored the sour look the boy shot him as he pulled a thick knife, "Give me your sweater for a sec. I need the sleeves to wrap this thing up before I lose any more blood."

Stan huffed, "This is Abercrombie and Fitch!"

"Yeah, and this is my small _intestine_." Owen ground out, "Guess which one you can find in a _mall_ , Stan?"

"Ugh, fine!" The youngster mumbled irritably as he stripped off his sweater and tossed it at Owen. He felt the humid island breeze on his bony back and wished desperately that his lean, mean killing machine of a genetic parent would look somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

As Owen cut strips and bound them in a makeshift bandage, Stan spotted the same pitying expression on his face. Panic filled him and he felt a desperate urge to dart between some Brachio's legs and disappear.

"Thanks for nothing." Stan muttered as Owen handed him back his shirt. He pulled it on hurriedly, "I'm gonna go call Claire and tell her what's happened."

"Uh…here." Owen extended his hand with a grim wince, "Better let me do the talking."

* * *

"What do you mean, I can't send a medic in? The hell I can't!" Claire gripped her cell phone forcefully. Imagining it was Owen's sphincter did wonders for her temper.

"I counted three Raptors. With Blue, that's four, and who knows how many more are in her pack?" Owen insisted over the receiver, "They'll be circling the perimeter. A ground team only means more casualties."

"Well, what about a chopper? I can have you airlifted out of there…"

"Can't risk a chopper this far south. You'll be swamped by 'dactyls before you can blink."

"So what, then? I'm just supposed to let you bleed out in the Brachio paddock?" Claire stormed into the control room as she hissed in frustration.

"We'll be fine. There's another gate ten miles down. We can make it there by nightfall and give the Raptors the slip."

"Owen, that's a _rear_ exit. You'll be skirting the _fence_!" Claire watched Lowery wave her over and tried her best to keep her exasperation to a low pitch.

"We'll be skirting the _wall_." Owen attempted to reassure her, "And if the coast is clear, you can send in a team to pick us up. I doubt the Raptors perimeter's gonna extend that far out."

"Tucker wants to see you." Lowery mumbled in her other ear nervously, "He says it's urgent."

Claire held up a finger, and the man hovered like a nervous hummingbird. "I can't believe Blue is actually _hunting_ Stan."

"Really? You can't believe that?" The dry humor in Owen's voice made her smile briefly.

"How bad are you hurt?"

"I'll be fine. Had worse."

"Claire!" Lower was practically hopping by now, "Tucker is freaking out, man!"

"I'm _coming_!" She snapped, before inhaling deeply to calm her voice, "I have to go. I'll have a team on standby at the rear exit."

"We'll be there in about four hours…" Owen's voice trailed off at a faint yell of complaint from the distance, "Make that _five_." He corrected sourly.

" _Claire_!" This time, Tucker himself was poking his head out of his office. The lines on his forehead held droplets of shining sweat.

"Be right with you!" She flashed the man a confident smile, "I'm _so_ sorry." Claire whispered to Owen, "Tucker's having a meltdown."

"Tell him if he lays one clammy little finger on you, I'll break every bone in his body…"

She hung up her cell phone just as Tucker himself marched into earshot.

"Is there a problem?" Claire raised her eyebrows as InGen's head honcho glared in her face.

"Well, I don't know, Miss Dearing." Tucker spat, holding up his cell phone to reveal a grainy, night-vision image of two figures in black, "I was hoping you could tell _me_!"

* * *

Owen checked his wound and was relieved to see the bleeding had been stemmed. He grit his teeth against the sharp ache that shot through his gut with every step and counted his blessings. The Brachio enclosure was home to peaceful herbivores. The afternoon sun beat down but broke on the shade of the trees, and an almost pleasant breeze was nipping at the air. They were only a couple of hours away from help, and Owen was sure that Claire already had the entire armed contingent assembled at the meeting point.

Yes, Owen Grady was actually beginning to feel optimistic about their circumstances…until Stanley opened his mouth, that is.

"I can't believe this." Stan was muttering to himself as he shoved at a palm leaf in his path, "The judge won't let me put myself through college or pour my own milk, oh no! Clearly I'm _so_ much better off in the care of Isla Nublar's resident Indiana Jones…"

"You know what?" Owen squinted ahead at a giant herd of dinosaurs to confirm safe passage, "We wouldn't even _be_ in this position if you'da done what I _told_ you instead of taking a shot at Blue!"

"Oh, of course! This is all _my_ fault!" Stan shook his tennis shoe free of a creeping vine, "You know, I didn't want to come out here. They _forced_ me to, just like they _forced_ me to live with my grandparents…"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask." Owen gripped Stan's shirt and moved him along just as a Brachiosaurus swept its giant tail, "What exactly is so bad about your grandparents? What, are they abusive? Drunks? Senile?"

"Oh, great." Stan wiggled out of his father's grip and adjusted his now-sleeveless sweater, "Now you want to have a heart-to-heart as well? I was wrong – this day _can_ get worse!"

"Did they do that your chest?" Owen stopped, pinning his son with a look that was both tragic and murderous all at once.

Stan knew what his father was referring to – two long, jagged scars across his chest and another on his ribcage. Owen had seen them the night he'd dressed Stan's wound from Blue, and then again when Stan had pulled off his sweater, but he hadn't asked about them.

He was asking _now_ , though. How very inconvenient.

"No. Those are…from boy's scouts." Stan ducked as a fat, black bug flitted around his face. He _hated_ this place.

"Yeah? And I'm the tooth fairy."

"Look, just leave it alone, Owen!"

"Oh!" Owen crossed his arms (forgetting his injury and wincing as he remembered it), "So when I'm throwing myself between you and a six-inch retractable claw, it's _Dad_ , but the minute I ask a question you don't like, we're back to _Owen_?"

Stan blushed furiously at the reminder of his slip-up. "Let's just…get to the stupid gate." He batted the bug away and picked up the pace.

"We're gonna talk about it sooner or later, Stan!" Owen called after his retreating back, "You got nowhere to hide, kid! It's just you and me and the dinosaurs."

* * *

 _ ***GLANCES AT READER KNOWINGLY* You know what to do! *RAISES EYEBROWS POINTEDLY*. Jesus, do I need to hold your hand all the way to the review button? :P**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Hey, all! Sorry for the delay. Up to my neck in paperwork. It's a blast. Anyway, managed to get this bad boy out for y'all. Enjoy and REVIEW! It don't cost you nothin'! - Tyler**_

* * *

Tucker had a new desktop clock. It wasn't digital. It wasn't quiet, either. It was a hideous, gothic ornament which echoed each tick-tick off the walls of Tucker's office.

Or maybe the silence was just that deafening. Claire was still working on the most tactful way to break it.

Tucker sat across from her, adding to the white noise in the room by tapping his nails against the glossy wood. His nostrils were flaring out angry puffs of breath – like a dragon waiting for Claire to make one wrong move so he could scorch her with a breath of flame.

Claire cleared her throat. Owen did that all the time and it seemed to work for him.

"I'm still…unclear as to why you've called me here when we have a serious situation to attend to." She raised her eyebrows pointedly at Tucker. Owen always said that guilt-tripping was Claire's forte, and she needed all the skills in her arsenal if she was getting out of this one.

"Is that you in the photo?" Tucker picked up a ball-point pen and pointed it at her furiously.

She cast him a shrewd smile, "I'm not sure what you're implying."

"What I am _implying_ ," The stout man rose to his feet, "is that you and your dino-hugging boyfriend broke into my office and hacked into some very personal and, I might add, very top secret files!"

Claire blinked at him, "Mr. Tucker, have you been getting enough sleep lately? Your eyes look _really_ bloodshot. I have some drops for that, if you want." She began to rummage through her bag, much to Tucker's bewilderment.

Changing the subject was another forte of Claire's.

"Stop! Just…just stop!" Tucker slammed his fist onto the desk, causing Claire to freeze. She eyed him coldly, cautiously.

"May I see the photo?"

Tucker rolled his eyes and slid a pixelated print-out in her direction.

Claire was immensely relieved that the snap had failed to capture their faces. "This could be _anybody_ , Tucker."

"I _know_ it was _you_ , Dearing. The eye witness who sent me this photo confirmed that the two of you entered the building right before the cameras were jammed on a loop for an hour and a half!"

"Your _source_? Who exactly is your _source_?" Claire demanded with all the air of an injured martyr.

"Oh you think I'll tell you?" Tucker snarled, "So you can sic your trigger-happy Dino Dan on them? I don't think so!"

"So a faceless, nameless individual is accusing me of _theft_." Claire stood up, her mouth set tightly, "And not _only_ do they refuse to come forward so I can counter their supposed _evidence_ ," She continued viciously as she shouldered her bag, "but you, it seems, are already convinced of my guilt without any actual proof besides the statement of this _invisible_ eye-witness!"

Tucker's face fell as he realized that Claire was far from intimidated.

"Do me a favor, Mr. Tucker." She addressed him sternly as she headed for the door, "Don't waste company time on your ridiculous fantasies. If you dig up any _real_ evidence, you can call my lawyer. I have a department to run and a crisis to solve." She yanked the door handle and cast Tucker one last scowl that was downright icy, "Not all of us have time to play Whodunnit."

The clack of her heels match the thudding of her heart as Claire hurried down the corridor. She had barely held it together, and her hands trembled as she dug into her bag for her phone.

"Lowery," Claire didn't even wait for a response, "I need to see you. It's urgent. Meet me outside the old aviary in half an hour – and if you so much as a breathe a word about it, you can kiss the rest of your figurines goodbye!"

* * *

"Do you need to stop?"

The question was asked through grit teeth and in the surliest voice imaginable. Stanley was asking it after Owen slowed his gait for the third time in ten minutes. Stan was glaring at a tree and didn't even both looking at the man as he broached the suggestion.

"Do _I_ need to stop?" Owen narrowed his eyes at his waist as he adjusted his bandages, "I'm not the one who keeps whining about his new converse _shoes_ getting ruined."

"They're _Vans_." Stan retorted, eyes peeled into the distance, "I can't see the enclosure wall. I think we've gone off course again! Ugh, this is just _perfect_!" He kicked at the ground.

"Would you relax?" Owen limped by him, face set in weary determination, "We'll be fine. I know exactly where we are."

"So do I!" Stan hurried after him, "We're smack in the middle of the most deadly island on the face of the earth! Does that mean I know where we're going?"

His father shook his head as they yanked down a web of vines obstructing their path, "It's not rocket science, Stan. It's all down to common sense. Now, judging by your grades, you'd be great with the first one, but," Owen pulled out his knife and hacked at a particular stubborn vine, "from what I've seen of your character, not so great with the last one."

The boy shoved a tangle of vines away from his face and glared, "What do _you_ know about my grades?"

"Well, you told me," Owen raised his voice slightly to compensate for the distance he'd put between them, "you were first in your class in every subject. That a fact or not?" He wiped some sweat from his brow and frowned at the field their path led onto.

"Well I _was_ first in my class!" Stan finally caught up to him, sounding frazzled and annoyed, "Now that school's starting again, and I'm stuck out here, I'll probably flunk the whole semester!"

"They're not gonna _flunk_ you." Owen commented dismissively.

Stan tossed him a glare, "You've never met the principal."

"Fine." Owen replied absently as he slowly, painfully, bent down to examine a footprint, "When we get off this rock, I will _personally_ meet with your principal and explain about your…mitigating circumstances." Claire's fancy terminology rubbed off on the man every now and then.

"I'd rather be expelled." Stan sounded truly mortified at the idea, "What are you looking at?"

"This footprint…it shouldn't be here." Owen straightened grimly, "And what do you mean, you'd rather be expelled? I can't talk to your principal?"

"You can't come to my _school_." Stanley clarified coldly, unaffected by the offended look Owen was wearing, "Like, ever."

"Why the hell not?" Owen demanded in a tone that was half-angry, half-injured.

"Because people at my school know who you are." The boy's dirty hair flopped into his face as he muttered.

"No, they don't!" Owen, who lived in a PR bubble in which Claire took the brunt of their newfound fame, found the very idea ridiculous.

"Trust me, they _do_!" Stan stepped over a fallen log moments after Owen, "Face it; it would just be…weird."

" _You're_ …weird." Owen mumbled, feeling crestfallen and not liking it one bit. He was used to be idolized by kids. Claire's nephews (even the tall, surly one) got all star-struck whenever he came around. The realization that Owen Grady, Raptor Alpha and co-savior of many, many lives, had been consigned to the Embarrassing Dad's table by his own son was a hard pill to swallow.

 _Shake it off, Grady, You've got bigger problems_.

Owen frowned at a second print, more defined than the last. He squinted into the canopy of trees ahead and, after a moment, came to a sobering conclusion.

"Hold it." Owen snagged Stan's shirt as his son strode forward.

"What now?" Stan fumed.

"We're turning around. Come on." Owen kept his grip on his son's sweater as he moved them both back in the direction they'd just come.

"What? But you said the halfway mark was just over that…"

"Those tracks ain't fresh, but they ain't old either." Owen settled them both behind a cluster of trees and began to load his gun, "I'm not taking any chances till I know the coast is clear."

Stan gripped his matted hair in frustration, "Ugh! What _about_ the tracks?"

"They're T-rex tracks, that's what." Owen held a bullet between his teeth as he loaded another into his weapon, "About two days old, from the looks of it. Could be the rex found a way into the paddock from the south side and is eating its way east. Goddamn Randall." He pulled the bullet out from his teeth, "If it was just me, I'd wing it. Damn thing's probably so full, it won't even bother. Most likely left the paddock already."

Stan watched his father load his gun with knit eyebrows, "Well, let's _go_ , then! I'm not waiting around for some…"

"It's _not_ just me, Stan." Owen reminded him, slinging his gun across his shoulder as he pinned his son with a look, "It's you. And _you_ ," He checked the knife clipped at his back, "can't even take _suggestions_ , much less an order. So, like I said," Owen sheathed the blade matter-of-factly, "I ain't risking it. We're waiting for back-up."

Stanley went slack-jawed as Owen strode past him, "Hey!" He nearly tripped over his own feet as he caught up to the man, "Okay, first off; how does a T-rex just break into an enclosure without someone noticing? I mean, isn't there surveillance in this joint?"

"Not this far out. They keep an eye on all the doors. That's pretty much it at this point, thanks to Randall."

"And secondly," Stan swung out an arm to block Owen's path, soliciting an eyebrow-raise, "I take _suggestions_!"

"You do?" Owen's question sounded like a statement – a highly sarcastic one, at that.

"Yeah! I take suggestions _all_ the time!"

"Oh really? How about 'stay where I can see you, Stanley', or 'get outta the Gyrosphere, Stanley'? Or how about 'don't shoot the freaking Raptor, Stanley'?" Owen raised his voice angrily.

"Okay, okay!" Stan snapped.

"I got _more_." His father informed him smugly. Stan growled out a sigh.

"Look, if I promise to be a good little boy and obey your every word, will you _please_ get us out of here sometime this century?"

Owen gave him a long, hard look, tossing up his options before he finally answered. "Every. Single. Word."

"Fine."

"You get _one_ chance." Owen raised his eyebrows and a single finger to emphasize his point, "You screw that up, deal's off. We wait for the ground troops."

"Done!"

" _One_ chance, Stanley! I'm not playing with you!"

"I get it!" The boy waved both palms, exasperated but obviously reining in his attitude.

"We'll stick to the cover of the trees and make a beeline for the exit. First sign of the T-rex and we're out of there." Owen adjusted the bloody bandage on his side cautiously, "You're on me like _glue_ , Stan."

"Yes, sir."

"I tell you to run, you _run_."

"Got it."

"Okay then." Owen nodded skeptically, "Let's head out."

Stan watched the man's heavy gait as he strode past him and fought to hide his excitement.

He hurried to catch up, "You want me to carry your gun?"

"No."

"Just asking."

"Well, don't."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Claire! I didn't rat you out!"

Claire closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, "For the last time, Lowery; I _know_ you didn't rat us out. You _couldn't_ have, because you were in your _bunker_."

Lowery adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses nervously, "This is bad, Claire. This is really, really bad. If someone out there knows I helped you, I'm gonna lose my job! I'm gonna go to jail! Wait a second." He began to pace frantically, "This is _Tucker_ we're talking about. Tucker probably has a pit full of Compys where he throws people who mess with him and why did I help you, oh my god…"

"Pull it together, Lowery!" Claire gave his shoulders a firm shake, "Tucker is helping Wu create another Indominus, and if we don't stop him, he'll succeed. I don't think I need to convince you of the severity of…"

"Okay. Okay!" Lowery cursed under his breath and studied the floor, "I'll help you. But only this once and then I'm done!"

"Understood."

"No more figurines!" He raised a finger, and Claire spread her hands.

"We have a deal. Now I need you to get _this_ ," She reached into her white clutch purse and handed Lowery a USB stick, "to Richard Wisner back in Masrani HQ. I need you to encrypt it – it can't be traced back to us."

"In case you haven't noticed, the Costa Ricans shut us down." He protested even as he accepted the stick. "Nothing gets in or out, remember? There's no global network – how the hell am I supposed to…"

"Give it a rest, Lowery. You'll just have to use your private line. Now…"

"How do you know about my private line?" Lowery narrowed his eyes in alarm, and Claire gave him a condescending look, "Never mind. Okay, get the files to Wisner. Got it."

"And hurry." Her red hair bobbed as she retraced her steps back to her car, "The longer we wait, the longer we give Wu to clone another !"

A distant roar froze her in her tracks. Claire's head shot up, eyes peering into the fading light over the hills. Lowery stood beside her, mouth open and dry.

"Was that…is that what I think it is?" He whispered.

The roar sounded again, rumbling like thunder from afar. Lowery gripped Claire's arm tightly.

"It's coming from the valley." She breathed, "Owen!" Claire yanked open her car door and leapt inside.

"Claire, what…"

"We have to go! We have to go _right_ _now_!" She was already flooring the accelerator as Lowery fumbled to buckle his seat-belt.

* * *

Stan frowned at the cell phone in his hand. "Shit. We're out of battery. No way to call Claire…" Owen's hand smacking into his chest stopped Stan in his tracks. He glared.

"What now?"

"Be quiet." Owen barked, eyes scanning the foliage sharply. Stan rolled his eyes and bit his tongue.

And then he heard it. A guttural growling that grew stronger with each passing moment. A faint shudder rippled through the ground beneath Stan's feet. He felt his heart stop beating.

"Oh my god." Stan whispered. The blood left his face as he saw a distant patch of trees begin to rustle, "Is it _her_?"

"We gotta go. _Now_!" Owen kept his grip on his son's shirt as they retreated through the trees. The roaring grew progressively louder, coupled with the moaning of the T-rex's unfortunate prey. It was getting closer.

The floor continued to tremor with each step of the gargantuan beast. Stan felt it vibrate beneath his feet as he was dragged by Owen to the cover of a heavy thicket.

"Go!" Owen pushed back a mass of brambles, "Get inside!"

"In _there_?" Stan wrinkled his nose at the deep scratches Owen's arm sustained, "Really? We still have time to…"

Suddenly, a giant Brachiosaurus skidded into sight before collapsing on its side. It was bleeding profusely from enormous claw marks down its flank.

Stan's eyes widened in time with Owen's.

"Go. _Go_!" Owen literally picked his son up and shoved him into the thicket – although Stan didn't take much convincing all of a sudden. Owen scrambled in after him. Thorns tore into their skin as Owen wrestled them both deeper into the brambles.

A mighty roar shook their surroundings. Stan could see the T-rex through the patches in the thicket. Its hide glistened in the fading sunlight as it ripped out the injured Brachio's throat.

It was mere meters from their hiding spot.

Stan was aware of an arm ensnaring him and pulling him tightly against a solid chest. He guessed it was Owen's arm and Owen's chest, but his whole body felt numb and he wasn't sure. He couldn't tear his eyes from the T-rex as she made short work of her latest meal. Blood dripped down her enormous teeth and dribbled onto her jaw as she gnawed.

Stan felt light-headed all of a sudden. Brambles dug into the small of his back and scratched at his face. He would have swayed on his feet if that arm hadn't kept him upright.

Owen looked at his son and was taken aback by the pallor of his skin. Stan's eyes were fluttering and his lips were moving silently as he watched the T-rex devour her prey. Half fascination, half terror.

He did the only thing he could do – pull Stan closer to his side and make eye contact with a tap of his fingers to Stan's chin.

The boy's eyes darted jerkily up to face him, and Owen held a finger to his lips. He moved them further into the brush until he felt the wind on his back.

Hearing the repeated tear of masticated flesh, Owen confirmed the T-rex was thoroughly occupied before he motioned to Stan that they should exit the rear of the thicket. The humid jungle air drenched them in sweat as they ran, Owen still hunched from his injury and Stan still pale with shock. They didn't stop until they had put a solid distance between them and the beast.

Owen caught his breath behind a tree and winced at the throb in his side. He felt faint, and his vision was beginning to blur. Stan's hands were on his knees as he sucked in gasps of air.

"We gotta keep moving." Owen muttered.

His son looked up through a mess of sweaty hair, "Are you kidding?" He snarled between pants of breath.

Owen was amazed (and more than a little perturbed) at how quickly Stan had snapped back to his surly self. "You want to be rex chow, Stan?"

" _I'm_ not the one leaving a bread crumb trail for her!" Stan motioned to Owen's wound, "Look. It's getting worse. You're losing too much blood. If you keep going, you're gonna pass out, and I am _not_ carrying you all the way to the meeting point!"

"You mean you _can't_ carry me all the way to the meeting point…"

"Pick one, Owen! You're staying here while I get help!" Stan retied a loose shoelace as he issued the declaration.

"Forget it!" Owen fumed, straightening up furiously only to double over in agony, "We'll just call Claire and tell her…"

"Dude. No battery, remember?" His son flashed him an unimpressed expression. "Look, I'll be fine! We've ditched the T-rex and the gate's only half a mile off…"

"No! I'm not about to let you…"

"Ugh, again with the 'letting'." Stan rolled his eyes as he stood up, "You know it makes sense. You can barely stand, let alone run, and if we stick to this snail's pace you've set, you'll bleed out before we even get there!"

Owen hated how logical Stan's argument was. He glared viciously at his son, who returned the glare. Spots danced in his vision and his breathing slowed. Somewhere in the distance, the T-rex rumbled.

"Take this." Owen grumbled, reaching behind him and unclipping his knife from his belt. He handed it to Stanley, who accepted it disdainfully.

"Can't I have the gun?"

"No. You'd probably shoot yourself in the foot before you hit a target." Owen slumped against the tree, hands clenched over his bleeding wound.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Stan tucked the knife onto his Levis.

"You know where you're going?"

"Yeah. It's just over that ridge up there." Stan flailed a hand in the indicated direction, "Just sit down and take a load off, will you? Everything's under control."

Owen didn't appreciate the flippancy with which Stan was treating the situation, "You're still grounded." He reminded his son in a sour mutter.

"So?" Stan rolled his eyes.

"So don't go taking any chances."

"Oh my god!" Stan threw up his hands, storming off into the trees.

Owen watched him go with paternal consternation. If only the little brat hadn't been right about his condition. But Owen knew he was in no state to carry on trekking. Somehow he'd managed to worsen the puncture to his side and the amount of blood was frightening.

That had been the _real_ reason Owen had let Stan go. He knew the smell of blood would eventually lure the T-rex (and if not her, then some other predator) to his hiding spot.

Owen didn't want Stan there when that happened.

* * *

 _ **Don't even THINK about exiting this window without hitting the review button! Yeah, I'm talking to you!**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Sorry this isn't as long as previous chapters. Little guy is sick again. I wanted to thank all of the Guest reviewers for their contributions! Sorry I can't reply personally (the site doesn't allow it), but I appreciate your feedback and please, keep it coming. Now get ready for some serious girl-power action! - Tyler**_

* * *

Claire took a hard right and then veered left, kicking up dust while her pristine company car shrieked in protest. It wasn't alone.

"Oh my god!" Lowery was bracing himself against the dashboard, "Claire, you're gonna get us killed! You're driving like a maniac!"

She ignored him. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sped towards the rendezvous point. The roars of the T-rex grew louder by the moment. She hoped desperately that she wasn't too late.

"Get me the welcome committee!" She shoved her cell phone at Lowey, who fumbled with it.

"What? Do I look like your secretary? Why me?"

"Because I'm driving!"

"You always use your cell phone when you drive!"

 _Not since I made a deal with Owen that I'd stop using it while driving if he'd start using his whenever he wasn't!_ Claire felt no need to share that personal information with Lowery. She did outrank him, after all. "For god's sake, Lowery, make the goddamn call!" Claire screamed, even as she pushed the car over a hard mound of dirt it really wasn't built for.

"Fine!" He complied, dialing the number and holding the phone to his ear, "You bug me on my lunch break all the freaking time…"

Claire blocked out his complaints, pulling off a hairpin swerve that nearly sent her tires skidding over a drop. _"You're not Vin Diesel, Claire, Jesus!" Owen would yell at her whenever her impatience got the best of her driving_.

Claire figured he'd understand in this particular case.

"Hello? Peterson, it's uh it's Lowery!" The man fumbled with his glasses, "I'm calling on behalf of Claire Dearing…holy shit, Claire, watch the tree! Yes, still here…"

"Ask him if he's at the meeting point!"

"Are your team at the meeting point for Grady?" Lowery went pale as he heard the response, "Uh oh." He turned to Claire, who glared at him in the rearview.

"What?"

"Please don't crash the car."

"Lowery!"

"They got orders from Tucker to fall back. Peterson has'em on stand-by a few clicks off the meeting point."

"What?" Claire gripped the steering wheel tighter, "Why the hell…"

"Uh huh," Lowery held up a finger, "Okay." He cupped a hand over the receiver, "They know the T-rex is in there. Tucker's not wasting personnel on Owen, the bastard."

"Damn it." Claire thought fast, "Okay. He doesn't want to help me? Fine. I don't need help. I can get them myself."

"What?" Lowery's head shot up in alarm, "No! No, no, no, Claire, listen to me…"

"I mean, I outran the T-rex in heels. I can do it in a car, no problem…"

"That was fluke, and also, those were Jimmy Choos! They probably cost more than this rattle-trap…"

"Hold on to your seat, Lowery!" She floored the accelerator, tearing through the shrubbery off the beaten path, "We're the new meeting team!"

* * *

Stanley Simmons had never been much of an athlete. Mathlete, maybe. Grammar whizz , check. Hell, he was even up for student body president – not that he wanted the position (school politics were dangerous – not to mention _totally_ nerdy). But when it came to running long distances on a short fuse, Stan came up sadly lacking.

He paused to catch his breath, glancing back at the enclosure he'd just cleared. Stan hoped he'd made good time. He pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and squinted in the fading light.

"Well, this is the meeting point." Stan muttered, "So where are they?"

A scuffle to his left had Stan unsheathing his father's knife and whipping around. Nothing. A twig snapped to his right, a ratty palm leaf rustled.

 _Something's out there_. Stan swallowed his terror and pushed on, hoping against hope that the raptors wouldn't find him before he found the ground squad. Owen had seemed pretty sure Blue wouldn't stretch her pack this thin.

 _And since when did Owen's word suddenly become good enough for you?_ Stan berated himself as he broke into a run. Trees blurred past him, merging with of a rush of odd colors that didn't belong amongst them.

Blue.

Stan skidded to halt as the raptor leapt out from her cover. Her impressive form blocked Stan's path as she bared her teeth in a hiss.

"Oh Jesus," Stan muttered, heart racing, "It's you again." He inched Owen's knife upwards and the raptor cocked her head. Blue was daring him to try it.

Remembering his failure to prevail against her, Stan wised up and lowered the blade.

"Okay, just…" He held out his palm defensively, "I'm sorry I tried to kill you, okay? But, I mean, come on! _You_ were trying to kill _me_ , and…and all's fair in love and war, and you love my dad and…" He fumble desperately, grasping at straws, "And my dad loves _me_!"

Blue blinked at him, head tilted.

"Yeah, that's right! And…and he would be _really_ pissed off if he finds out you killed me. I mean, _really_ pissed! It would be a lose-lose situation." Stan held up both hands as Blue advanced several paces. "I guess what I'm saying is…" He tossed his sweaty hair as fear shook his knees, "…we're like family!"

The raptor eyed him contemptuously.

Stan sighed in disgust, "I know. That was reaching."

Blue sprang.

Stan screamed.

An engine roared.

Claire's car cut through the brush, slamming into Blue and sending her flying. Claire pulled the car to a swerving halt alongside Stan.

"Get in!"

Stan didn't need to be told twice. He flung open the backseat door and dove inside even as Blue recovered her footing, limping. The raptor shrieked in rage as the car sped away, but her injured leg prevented her from giving chase. With a cry, Blue called in the cavalry.

* * *

"That was awesome!" Stan yelled, bracing himself in his seat, "You're like…Vin Diesel in a skirt!"

Despite herself, Claire allowed a tiny smile.

"Stop it! Stop encouraging her!" Lowery screamed.

"I need you to tell me _exactly_ where Owen is!" Claire hollered over the roar of the engine.

"Over that ridge…right, take a right!" Stan gestured frantically, then swore as his head smashed against the window.

"Sorry!" Claire winced, spinning the wheel, "I don't see him!"

"He was right over there!" Stan huffed, pointing to the edge of the tree-line.

"God damn it, where is he?" Claire felt frantic, her pulse racing in time with her car as she did a full-circuit sweep of the spot, "He's not here!"

"Look out!" Lowery's yell came just in time to call attention to a bloody figure leaping in their path.

It was Owen.

Claire screamed and slammed on the brakes, veering away and narrowly missing a giant boulder in the process. The tiny car almost jackknifed with the sudden halt and its engine steamed as it jerked to a stop.

Claire was shaking, hands clutching the wheel in a death-grip. Stan cradled his head where it had connected, yet again, with the window. Lowery turned to glare at his colleague.

"Where the hell'd you learn to drive?"

They all jumped with shock as Owen slammed a bloody palm against the window.

"Claire!"

"Ah!" She let loose a very un-ladylike squeal.

"Are you okay? What the hell are you doing here?" Owen yanked opened the door as Stan made room for him in the back.

"What does it look like, Owen? I'm rescuing you!" Claire attempted to turn the engine over and slapped the wheel as it declined to do so.

"What happened to the meeting point?" Owen muttered through grit teeth to Stan, before repeating the question loudly to Claire when his son held up his hands in innocence, "What happened to the meeting point?"

"Tucker called the squad off when he heard about the T-rex!" Claire revved the engine again, "Come on!"

"So you just decided to come charging in here on your made-in-china white horse with Lowery as your backup?" Owen demanded.

"Yes, Owen, you're welcome!" Claire snapped, and with her third try, the engine turned over and the car roared into life.

"God, I love you." Owen declared, shortly before slumping back in his seat, pale as a sheet.

A rustling in the trees alerted the group to approaching danger.

"Shit." Claire pumped the gearstick and pulled a U-turn, "We gotta get out of here!"

Stan eyed his father critically as they sped back out of the enclosure. "You look like shit."

Owen forced a scoff, but made no reply. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his blue shirt was soaked with crimson liquid.

"Here." The teenager silently removed his sweater, rolling it into a ball and pressing it against the wound, "Well, I have to put _pressure_ on it!" He snapped as Owen groaned.

Claire maneuvered her car through the maze of trees she'd passed moments earlier, "Keep a look out for raptors, Lowery! I knocked one down right around here…"

"What?" Lowery straightened in his seat, "Are you serious? As if being potentially chased by a T-rex isn't bad enough?"

"She's not chasing us." Owen murmured, eyes closed as his head lolled against the seat, "Went…east."

"Yeah, that's great." Stan patted his arm before leaning his head between the driver and passenger seats, "Could you be cool, for god's sakes?" He hissed a whisper at Claire.

"What? You _just_ said I was awesome…"

"You can't tell him I was almost raptor chow _again_! Do you _want_ me to be handcuffed to his wrist?"

"No, I do _not_." Claire replied coldly.

If Stan understood what she was implying, he didn't seem bothered, "Good. So it's a win-win situation!"

"Just stop talking!" Lowey screamed, as Claire narrowly a tree, "Stop talking and _drive_!"

Claire did. Or at least, she tried to. But before long, she noticed shadows darting alongside them through the bushes. And she realized that Blue had called in her posse.

"Okay," Claire checked her rearview mirror to ensure that Owen was as out of it as he was going to get, "nobody panic, but there are raptors tailing us."

"Oh, perfect!" Lowery, of course, panicked, "Well, do we have a gun? What's our game plan? What are we going to do?"

Stan gave his catatonic father a cautious poke before sliding his shotgun off. "Here." He handed it to Lowery, who panicked further.

"What, are you insane? Point that thing someplace else…"

"Fine!" Stan snapped, rolling down his window, and this time, Claire panicked.

"Just put the gun down! I have a plan!" She yelled, even as she shrieked and swerved to avoid a lunge from a velociraptor.

It was Stan's turn to panic as one of the raptors leapt, latching onto his half-open window and snapping its jaws. He screamed, scrambling back on top of Owen and fumbling with the rifle.

"Oh my god, it's on the car!" Lowery yelled, twisting backwards, "Shoot it, Stan! Shoot it!"

Stan was trying. But his fingers were butter and the safety was on somehow and he didn't know how to use a rifle and the glass was cracking…

Owen's hands moved over his and snatched up the rifle, cocking it and shooting the raptor in the head. It lurched and skidded off the road.

"Stan, are you okay?" Claire called back frantically as she kept flooring the accelerator.

Stan swallowed thickly. Owen slumped back, eyes rolling into his head as he passed out.

"Claire! We're not gonna make it!" Lowery cried as two more raptors caught up to their vehicle.

"Just hang on!" She yelled.

The car jostled violently with every bump and curve as Claire pushed it, racing against time with raptors at each flank. Lowery alternated between curses and shouts of warning.

Stan felt Owen's fluttering pulse and shook him.

"Wake up!" He swatted at his cheeks, eliciting a low moan from the man. Stan's lips set in frustration, "When I was ten, Mom left me at her parents' place for the weekend. One minute, everything was fine. The next, her old man was coming at me with a hot poker. Said I had the devil in me 'cause I mouthed off to my grandma." Stan full-on slapped Owen's face as the man toppled over, "Hey!" He held him upright by the shoulders, "They told my mom the burn was an accident. But then there was the razor strop and the extension cord and then Mom stopped leaving me there! You happy now?"

"Claire!" Lowery hollered as she spun the vehicle sharply, sending everyone flying. The raptors caught up quickly. Claire switched gears at the last minute, pulling a hairpin turn even as the raptors leapt…

Right into range of Peterson's squad team.

"Everybody down!" Claire yelled, dropping her head into her knees as the others followed suit. A smatter of gunfire, followed by the whistle of a rocket-launcher, preceded a loud explosion.

Smoke cleared. Dust settled. Shouts broke out and armed troops ran towards them.

Claire took a deep, long breath to steady herself before glancing in her rearview. "Everyone okay?"

"No!" Lowery snapped, although the man looked in perfect health.

Stan just blinked at her.

"I know." She breathed shakily, as someone called for a medic, "I'm Vin Diesel in a skirt."

* * *

 _ **Vin Diesel in a skirt...probably not half as breathtaking as Claire Dearing, I know. But a compliment from Stan's as rare as snow in the Sahara, so...REVIEW! AND DON'T ASK HOW THE TWO ARE CONNECTED!**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Howdy, folks! First off, thanks for all the reviews. They really do light a fire under my often-unmotivated ass to get up and write. Keep it coming! Also, as the good Dr. Nat pointed out, I have been incorrectly alternating between 'shotgun' and 'rifle' when referencing Owen's weapon. It is, in fact, a rifle. And his vest is a vest. Not a waistcoat. Sorry :P - Tyler**_

* * *

The mechanical beep of a heart monitor lulled Owen Grady into waking. He squinted, winced at a sharp pain in his arm when he tried to move it, and lay still. The IV pumping icy fluid into his veins was the least of his concerns. His torso was heavily bandaged and he could feel the tug of fresh stitches.

Great. Owen hated stitches. Hated IV drips even more. But he was alive and, if the cheery smile of the nurse who walked in was anything to by, he was going to be just fine.

"You're awake!" The woman beamed, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was hit by a freight train." Owen struggled to sit up, and the orderly assisted him, propping a pillow at the small of his back, "How long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Are you kidding me?"

"You lost a lot of blood, Mr. Grady." The nurse chided, "We had to do three transfusions just to get your vitals stable…"

"Three?" Owen's eyebrows shot up. He noticed the multiple circular band-aids in the hollow of his elbows, "Where'd you get all the blood?"

"Your friend Barry was happy to help. Miss Dearing also contributed, although at Doctor Brennar's insistence, she only donated half the recommended amount."

Of course. Claire would probably have bled herself dry if she'd thought it necessary. Owen made a mental note to thank whichever doctor had had the nerve to stand up to her.

"And the third donor wished to remain anonymous." The nurse pulled back the curtains from the window, "You were very lucky, Mr. Grady. You've escaped any major internal damage, although there were a significant amount of sutures…."

"What about Claire…Stanley? Are they okay?"

"They're fine." She gave him a reassuring smile, "Minor cuts and bruises, but otherwise, they're in perfect health. The doctor was unable to treat Stan thoroughly, however, as your son refused us access to his medical records."

"He _refused_." Owen's eyes narrowed. The nurse had the good sense to realize his glare was not for her.

"Yes. Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll send for Doctor Brenner. She'll examine you and determine a suitable release date for…" The woman gaped as Owen, still in his backless hospital gown, pulled himself out of bed, "M…Mr. Grady, what are you…"

"Thanks for everything…" Owen snapped his fingers at her, eyes closed.

"Maria."

"Maria. Right. Look, this has been great and everything, but I really got to go." He pulled on the fresh clothes folded by his bed (no doubt courtesy of Claire).

Maria blushed and averted her eyes, "Mr. Grady, I have to insist that you wait for Dr. Brenner…"

"No can do! See, there's a T-rex on the loose and an angry pack of raptors who have my kid on their dinner menu." Owen struggled with his boots as he spoke, "So I kind of have to…"

He stopped dead, frozen mid-speech. Claire was standing in the doorway, an immaculate bouquet of flowers clutched in her hand. Her eyes narrowed at her boyfriend as she realized this was jailbreak.

* * *

"This is ridiculous."

"No. What's ridiculous is thinking you can leave the clinic after two days in a medically-induced coma with no warning!"

Owen knew he was sulking. It was embarrassing, but not quite as embarrassing as the fact that Claire was pushing his wheelchair. At least he was breathing free air again. It was the only way he'd managed to convince her to let him leave AMA.

He'd ditch the chair as soon as they got home, he told himself confidently. The fact that his head was still spinning and his side was beginning to throb was only a minor setback.

"I'm fine!" Owen reassured Claire. She stopped dead, abandoning the helm of the wheelchair to stand in front of her boyfriend.

He sobered instantly at the tears shining in her eyes.

"Do you have any idea how scared I was?" Claire whispered furiously, "You could have died, Owen. You could have bled out or been killed by a dinosaur, or died of infection…"

"But I didn't." He reached out, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb, "I'm here, I'm okay. And that's because of you. You were amazing."

Claire straightened, composing herself instantly as a group of workers walked by. She hated gushy displays of emotion. They were completely unprofessional and solved nothing.

"Well, not just me." She dabbed a fingertip under her eye, "Barry gave a lot of blood."

"Yeah, remind me to thank him for that." Owen mumbled as Claire resumed pushing. "Oh, who was the 'mystery' donor person?" He added in afterthought.

Claire smiled above his head, "I believe they asked for anonymity."

"Yeah, but you know who it is, don't you?"

Silence.

"You know I'll just get it out of you later." He coaxed, smirking at her huff of resignation.

"Promise me you're not going to say anything."

"Sure. Whatever. Cross my heart."

"It was Stan." Claire whispered conspiratorially. Owen twisted to face her and gasped in pain. "Your stitches!" She reminded him fiercely.

"Ungh." Owen shut his eyes tightly, " _Stan_ gave me blood? Did you actually _see_ him give me blood?"

"I know, I know. It sounds _way_ too good to be true." Claire maneuvered the wheelchair around some rocks, "But, it's true. They needed more blood, and I was going to give it, but I guess Stan saw I wasn't doing too well, so he volunteered."

This was getting more and more incredulous.

"He _volunteered_?"

"He spent the whole time you two were wired up proclaiming loudly that if you hadn't insisted on teaching him some kind of morally-twisted life lesson, you wouldn't be in this mess to begin with, and that technically," She grunted as they tackled a patch of gravel, "he was saving your life, which he feels entitles him to your everlasting gratitude and of course an immediate lifting of his grounding, as well as other privileges…"

"He said all that, huh?" Owen squinted at her.

"I left for coffee halfway through the rant." Claire gave him a small smile, "Anyway, you promised not to say anything."

"I won't." But Owen felt a little warmer inside. "Now tell me what else I missed."

Her mouth twisted. He couldn't see her, but he knew it had.

"Besides me?"

"Besides you." Owen reached up, gripping Claire's hand and bringing it softly to his lips. He knew he owed her his life, and the feeling was strangely unnerving and endearing, all at once.

"The feds flew in yesterday to begin their investigation." Claire informed Owen, easing his wheelchair over the rough path back to their cabin, "They're headed up by Special Agent Jolene Fisher."

"Isn't she the one who headed up the first investigation when the park closed down?" Owen remembered Jolene Fisher – a hard woman with harder morals. She'd treated him with professional respect, but had been downright vicious to Claire. Owen could only imagine how Claire felt about bearing up against the woman a second time around.

He squeezed the hand beside him, "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Claire assured him lightly, "As of yet, she's mainly focused on Tucker. I'm just giving her a wide berth until it's my turn in the hot seat."

"Hope she throws his ass in the slammer." Owen muttered, "It's his damn fault we're out here."

"I have my fingers crossed." Claire's quiet reply relayed her fury at Tucker's refusal to come to Owen's aid.

"What about the T-rex?"

"Tucker sent out a clean-up crew to push her back behind the wall before the feds landed. It seems they were successful, although there were a lot of casualties."

"I bet Tucker just wrote them off as collateral. Anything to cover his ass." Owen shook his head in disgust, "And Stan?"

"Stanley's been…keeping busy."

"Is he bothering you?" Owen was quick to jump to conclusions, "What's that little punk been up to now?"

"Actually," Claire clarified, "Stan is…very usefully employed."

"Doing what?" Owen prompted when she failed to elaborate.

"Well, he, uh…" Claire sounded cautious – far too cautious, "He's been working for InGen."

"For InGen? With _you_?"

"Not exactly." She pulled the wheelchair to a halt outside their cabin, "I'll just unlock the door…"

Owen snagged her hand. She flinched guiltily.

"Claire," Owen's voice was sickly-sweet, "Who's he working for?"

* * *

"Bring her up higher!" Randall hollered to his crew as they adjusted a crane, "Compton, you idiot! You have an engineering degree, for Christ's sakes! Sorry you have to see this, kid." He lowered his voice to a condescending pitch as he aimed it to his left.

Beside him stood Stanley, in a hard hat. He was frowning at the brick-laying process before him.

"You know, Mr. Randall…"

"Please, call me Steven."

Stan raised an eyebrow impatiently, "I really don't know the first thing about construction…"

"You'll learn." Randall waved a hand dismissively, "It's like taking candy from a baby."

"When you asked me if I wanted to make some cash," Stan followed the man as he strode through the wall's construction site, "I thought you meant, like, categorizing files, or copies, or something at an intern level that didn't involve…"

"What, possible contact with dinosaurs?" Randall suggested, turning to sneer at Stan, "Kid, this is Isla Nublar. Those clowns in the control room are no safer than we are out here. At least we're building something that's gonna keep away the baddies."

"But…the T-rex broke through." Stan scowled as Randall accepted an iced latte from his assistant, "So clearly there's a major flaw in your design plan or materials."

"I had you figured different, Stanley." Randall appraised him harshly, "But right now, you're sounding an awful like your old man."

The jibe had the desired effect. The teenager's face flushed and he adjusted his hard hat, "So what do I do first?"

Stan's decision to join the InGen workforce had come about after he'd been sent home from Isla Nublar's only clinic. Claire had been run off her feet with damage control after the T-rex incident, and although she'd asked Barry to keep an eye on him, the dinosaur specialist had to pull double shifts with Owen out of commission.

Fighting mixed emotions over his father's fragile state, Stan had floated around the cabin, feeling restless and irritated. When Randall had turned up looking for Owen (apparently 24 hours was more than enough time to get over 'a little cut'), he'd ranted about lack of manpower, and Stan had jumped at the chance to get out of the cabin – and make some dough.

But Stan hadn't expected to be sent to the literal front line of Isla Nublar – the wall. Granted, Randall was paying Stan in cash – and workers on the wall made a pretty fat sum – but the voice of reason told Stan that this would end up being a win- _lose_ situation with himself on the latter end.

Because if he didn't get mauled to death by a dinosaur, or injured on site, then Stan was ninety-nine percent sure that Owen was personally going to kill him if he found out what was going on.

Claire thought Stan was helping out in the accounting department. So Claire didn't know, which meant _Owen_ wouldn't know. And what Owen didn't know wasn't going to hurt him or – more importantly – Stan.

"Hey, Kevin." Stan nudged a tall, gangly youth shoveling debris beside him, "You know anything about those federal agents who landed a while back?"

"Can't say as I do." Kevin had a wispy beard that looked like it had been growing since he hit puberty and had never really flourished, "Heard they're checking things out. You know, making sure everything's _kosher_ or whatever."

"But do you think they can lift the quarantine? So that whoever wants out can leave?"

"If they got in, they can sure as hell get out." Kevin paused, resting his elbows on the handle of his shovel, "Why? You thinking of blowing this joint?"

"Of course I am. I'm a grade-schooler, for God's sakes." Stan informed him scornfully, "If it wasn't for CBS dragging me out here, I'd be sitting in English debating phrasal verb usage with Mr. Mathews!"

Kevin's eyed him wildly, "You are one weird kid, you know that? When I was fourteen…"

"Fifteen!"

"I woulda traded my front teeth for a gig like this!" Kevin shook his head before he went back to shoveling, "Nine kinds of crazy's what you are, kid."

Stan ignored him, feeling a wave of self-pity at being assigned to work alongside such a base individual. Tomorrow he'd ask Randall for a new assignment. Preferably one that gave him a shot at Special Agent Jolene Fisher.

* * *

The paved pathway leading up to the cabin was a beacon for Stan. He blew out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding in relief. He'd hitched a ride back with the company truck that carted the wall workers to and from the site, but he'd gotten off a ways from the cabin – for obvious reasons.

Stan still had Owen's knife, and Randall had given him a Taser (standard company issue). But the walk back to the cabin in the fading light had reduced Stan to a paranoid mess. Every shadow had a tail. Every rustle of the leaves was a raptor's hiss. He twisted the key Claire had lent him in the lock and slipped through the crack before it even opened fully.

"Hey!"

Stan was surprised to see Owen sitting on the faded leather easy chair, feet propped up on the coffee table.

Mortified and relieved at the same time, Stan opted to shut the door gently instead of slamming it in frustration.

"What are you doing back?" He wouldn't say _home_ because this was _not_ his home, "Claire said you weren't going to be out of the clinic for another week."

"Yeah well," Owen winced as he shoved into a stand, "I got parole for good behavior."

"Great." Stan muttered, anxious to beat the scene, "Well, I'm gonna go shower."

"Oh Stanley, hi!" A smiling redhead poked out from the kitchenette, "How was your day with Ashley?"

He squinted at Claire, "Ashley?"

"You know, from accounting." Claire was balancing a myriad of plates and bowls in her long, lean arms as she set the table, "She mentioned you were a great help today."

"Oh. Yeah."

 _Ashley. That must be the buck-toothed intern I paid fifty bucks to cover for me,_ Stan mused as he washed construction dust from his hair. _For some reason, I thought her name was Annie. Whatever – starts with an A, close enough_.

Dinner was a tense affair… for Stan, anyway. Claire was obviously delighted to have her man back at the table and made a very un-Claire-like show of waiting on Owen hand and foot. Owen seemed equally pleased, and made a very un-Owen-like display of politely refusing Claire's constant attentions and insisting that she sit down and relax with him. At one point, he even pulled her into his lap for a quick, tender kiss.

They were like a pair of doe-eyed lovers. It made Stan sick to his stomach. Or maybe that had something to do with the way Owen leaned back in his chair and appraised him with a long, quiet look.

Stan felt himself squirm, "What?" He poked at his food viciously.

"Nothing." His father said, before adding, "So, Claire tells me you're working for InGen. How's that going?"

"Fine."

"Why _accounting_?"

"It beats shoveling dino crap." Stan stabbed a carrot.

"True. But it ain't exactly action-packed."

"I think I've had all the action I can take for a while!" The teenager snapped, meeting Owen's eyes huffily, _God, just leave me alone!_

"Yes, I think we _all_ have, Stanley." Claire agreed matter-of-factly as she served herself a second portion of salad with a pointed look at her boyfriend.

"You know," Owen continued after a moment of silence, "I gotta imprint on some raptors set to hatch tomorrow. I could use an extra pair of hands."

Stunned, Stan's mouth slackened as he digested Owen's offer. "What does that mean?"

"Well, it means you'd imprint on one of the raptors and you'd be responsible for its training along with me and Barry." Owen explained slowly. The unspoken words rang through the air: _It means I'm trusting you_.

"What do you say, kid? You up for it?"

Stan felt his whole face flush red and an unexpected lump form in his throat. Something unfamiliar – guilt – knotted in his gut.

"I…I dunno. I have to think about it."

Owen nodded, "Well don't think too long. I'm heading out first thing tomorrow."

"Then you should _definitely_ get an early night." Claire stated practically as she began clearing away the dishes.

"Mmm, baby, is that an invitation?"

" _Right_ here." Stan threw down his fork in disgust, "I am _right_ _here_!"

"Don't worry, Stanley. You're father's an invalid. He won't be engaging in any highly inappropriate sexual behavior for a long, long time." Claire's words and acid smile were as much for Stan as they were for his father.

Both graced her with fearsome scowls, regardless.

She sauntered off with the dishes.

"So, we need to talk." Owen informed his son quietly.

Stan had already shot to his feet and grabbed an empty plate, "You know, I'm gonna help Claire with these dishes…"

"Sit down." The voice became firm, "Please."

Stan wanted to tell Owen where to go, but he'd learned from experience that that particular approach only seemed to encourage the man. So he sat – grudgingly.

At least the man said please.

"What now?"

"I remembered," Owen leaned forward slowly, carefully, eyes glued to the spoon twisted in his fingers, "what you told me in the car. About your grandparents."

 _Oh_. Stan felt his heart sag with relief. He hadn't been found out. But this conversation was still going in a very unpleasant direction. Stan battered down his fortress of silence and hunkered down for a battle wills. This time, he'd win.

"Is that why you didn't want them to pull your medical records at the clinic?" Owen pressed.

Silence.

"You know, you can't do that again, Stan. If something happens to you, people need to know your medical history so they can treat you properly."

"They're not a _real_ hospital." Stan said coldly, "If they were, they wouldn't have needed my permission."

"They're a temporary clinic set up by Masrani Corps." Claire interjected softly as she returned for – and left with – more plates.

"Why the hell aren't they in jail?" Owen's next question was sharper, ground out from behind grit teeth.

Silence, once more.

"Your mom never told anyone, did she?"

"No. They were her parents. We just moved away."

Owen worked his jaw, "Did _you_ tell anyone?"

Stan scowled from under his wet bangs, "Yeah, I told CWS and the court. They said there was no evidence and they're right – there isn't. But my mom specifically put in her will that she didn't want her parents to have me, so the court respected her wishes."

It was more than he'd intended to say. More than Owen deserved to know, in Stan's opinion. But he figured if he pacified him, he might just get this over with sooner.

Owen scraped a hand across his jaw and glared at the floor.

"Are we done here?" Stan ventured churlishly.

"Yeah." Owen was eyeing the wall mournfully as he waved a hand dismissively, "Just…get some sleep."

Stan did exactly that. And if he tossed and turned, or woke up drenched in sweat from night terrors involving raptors and pterodactyls and hot pokers…he kept it to himself.

Through the cool wood wall, Owen also slept. And if he felt the constant throb of pulled stitches from shooting up in bed, if he pressed his fingers to Claire's pulse to assure himself she had not, in fact, died in a mangled car wreck, if he felt a new and entirely different sort of fire scorching his insides at visions of long, thin scars on a long, thin body…

He kept it to himself, as well.

* * *

 **Very angst-ridden, I know. I'm probably projecting - it's been a rough week. But if you leave me some love, I'm sure to feel better! So REVIEW!**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Hope you're ready for some action, people, because this chapter is chock-a-block full of it. Got my muse back, so enjoy.**_

 _ **On a side note; to the Guest reviewer who very astutely pointed out that Owen seemed a little OOC in the second chapter (I believe the word hormonal was used), thanks very much for your input. You make a valid point. Seeing as we have no actual reference point to work with in terms of Owen being a parent (something which I think we can all agree renders drastic chance on a very primal level), I went with my gut. So if I shot and missed, sorry. I agree Owen is portrayed as a very calm individual and I've tried to stick to that as much as possible. Thanks again for your feedback! - Tyler**_

* * *

"Lowery," Claire balanced her suit jacket over the arm clutching her coffee and held her phone with the other, "Please tell me some good news."

"Package delivered." Her friend confirmed, "Though I gotta tell you, Claire, I think you're making a big mistake. Those files might not hold up in court as evidence if they find out you stole them!"

"That's the lawyers' problem, not mine." She hurried towards her office through a crowd of suited individuals with earpieces, "Masrani will absorb my share of involvement in the I-rex fiasco in exchange for information on Wu. I delivered. It's a win-win situation."

Lowery sounded like he was smirking, "You spend _way_ too much time with Stanley. Please tell me you aren't babysitting again. Fisher's people are all over HQ today!"

"No, Stanley's with his father, actually." Claire juggled her coffee, jacket, and phone as she opened her office door, "Owen took him to see the raptors hatch."

She'd been as surprised as Owen when his son had quietly asked if he could tag along that morning. The cautiously-optimistic look on Owen's face as he and Stan headed off had given Claire high hopes.

She looked up from her phone to come face to face with a lean, hard-faced blonde sitting on her desk.

"I'll call you back." Claire hung up and set down her coffee, "Agent Fisher. This is a nice surprise."

"Oh I doubt that, Miss Dearing. Especially considering the circumstances." Fisher pushed off from the desk, "This is the _second_ time I find you smack in the middle of a Jurassic scandal?"

"It's an occupational hazard." Claire smiled coldly. She couldn't – wouldn't – tell Jolene about the files. It would only incriminate her and Owen, and Tucker would likely find some way to stall until he could figure out a countermove.

"Did you need something in particular? My schedule is pretty hectic."

"I can imagine, what with that T-rex on the loose." Fisher titled her head, "Tucker says the situation is _contained_. That how _you'd_ put it, Miss Dearing?"

"It really doesn't matter how I would put it. That isn't my department." Claire placed her jacket carefully over the back of her chair.

"What exactly _is_ your department? Tucker says Masrani Corps railroaded you onto the team." Fisher crossed her arms, "He thinks you're here to spy on him."

Claire spread her hands, "Well, I can't really help what Tucker thinks, or does, for that matter. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"I already told your assistant to clear your schedule." Jolene informed her, "Tucker and some hard-hat in a Prada suit gave me a bogus tour of the clean-up site. I need someone with full access who isn't desperate to sweep things under the rug."

"And that someone is _me_ because..?" Claire raised her eyebrows.

"You're not on Tucker's payroll." Fisher picked up Claire's jacket carefully, "You're not on his A-team list. You're here because you want the truth." She handed Claire her jacket, "And so am I. Shall we?"

* * *

"You sure you're okay?" Barry asked for the fifth time, "I don't think you should be here. You look terrible."

"Have you checked out a mirror lately, man? You ain't lookin' so hot yourself." Owen threw out the absent-minded insult from his position watching the raptor eggs. He could hardly contain his excitement. It was an exhilarating – and sobering – experience to imprint on such powerful creatures.

"I just hope the project can be relocated when Agent Fisher shuts this place down." Barry quietly pushed a chair under Owen, "That woman is ruthless. Everyone is complaining. They say she is intrusive."

"Well, I can't _wait_ for her to intrude on _me_." Owen replied.

"Seriously?" Stan looked up from a holographic progress chart in disgust.

"Oh, relax." Owen rolled his eyes, "What I _meant_ is I have a lot of dirt on Tucker…"

"You're in a committed relationship!" Stan muttered as though he hadn't heard the man.

"That's right, Owen. Better leave Fisher to me." Barry grinned.

"And you're pushing forty!" Stan burst out as he continued his rant.

"With a _very_ long stick!" Owen snapped, "Which I will hit you with if you take another crack at my age, little boy!"

"Oh, but _you_ can do it!" Stan headed for the bathroom, "I need to go wash my hands. And my ears."

"And your _mouth_ , while you're at it!" Owen yelled sourly after him. Barry shook his head.

"Be careful what you say about Tucker. If he goes down, he could take us with him." He reminded his friend solemnly, "Don't rock the boat, Owen."

"I ain't scared of Tucker. Truth be told, I only came out here for Claire. Got me a Navy pension." Owen sank gratefully into the chair, "My old man's ranch is falling apart. Thinking about takin' it over once I can get us off this rock."

"Good luck." Barry snorted as he pulled up a seat beside his friend, "Tucker _needs_ you and Claire here, whether he likes it or not. The T-rex will be back. The wall can't hold her. And no one knows where the raptors are…"

"Back!" Stan's return from the restroom caused Owen to nudge Barry with his foot, "Did I miss anything?"

"Nope." Owen pinned Barry with a look, "You sure you don't want to imprint on one?"

"We both know I'm totally unqualified." Stan's eyes were alight under his bangs as he surveyed the eggs, "I think you just want me to have my own pet raptor to fend off the bullies."

"If you think they are _pets_ ," Barry spoke up severely, "then you are not ready."

"I just said I wasn't. Like, five seconds ago."

"Shut up." Owen shushed the pair as one of the eggs began to crack. A tiny claw punctured the shell, followed by a grey, shriveled snout.

"Hey, little guy." Owen grinned tenderly, cautiously extending a hand as the hatch-ling broke free of its confines,"Welcome to Isla Nublar."

* * *

Jolene Fisher stood alongside Claire Dearing, eyeing the dismal fencing that subbed the unfinished wall. A few feet off, a shades-sporting agent (Claire suspected he was Jolene's muscle) was muttering into his earpiece.

"This is pathetic." Fisher ground out, "Tucker told me the wall was complete and infallible."

"Well, as you can see," Claire waved at the wire, "it's neither. The carnivores were all pushed south but they break through sporadically. The pterodactyls are uncontrollable."

"We didn't encounter any during the trek from the dock." Fisher squinted.

"That's because Tucker had a pile of fresh animal carcasses lining the opposite coast to distract them." Claire folded her arms as they retraced their steps back to the golf cart they'd commandeered.

"What about their shock transmitters?"

"After we evacuated the island, many of our devices malfunctioned due to lack of maintenance. The shock transmitters still work, but we can't trigger them."

"So what you're telling me is that Tucker's control over these animals is a complete sham, an illusion."

"I'm just telling you the facts." Claire stated, "Right now, there are countless predators roaming free on this island, and the only thing separating us from them is _that_." She pointed at the fencing, "What I'm _telling_ you is evacuate the island. Leave these animals alone. You want to prosecute people? Do it somewhere no one will get eaten."

As if on cue, a thud resonated through the air, rumbling in the ground beneath their feet. Both women's heads shot up at a rustle in the treetops in the near distance.

"Oh god." Fisher breathed, her hand dropping to the hilt of her .44.

"We should leave!" The other agent had already pulled out his weapon and was ushering them backwards.

"Get in! Go!" Claire snapped into action first, breaking into a sprint to close the last few meters to the golf cart. Fisher was hot on her tail, swinging feet-first inside as her fellow agent climbed in behind her.

"What is it?"

"I have a few theories, but I'm not waiting around to find out!" Claire started the engine and pulled a U-turn, cursing her luck. Lately it seemed all she did was outrun dinosaurs in high-speed chases.

Owen would probably tell her it was her own damn fault for skirting the fence with a T-rex on the loose. As if he hadn't done the same freaking thing a few days ago.

Claire could hear the roaring grow louder and she knew what was chasing them. The T-rex was hungry again. And Claire was starting to think the golf cart might not do as well as her Jimmy Choos.

"We have to get back to the base!" Fisher was yelling in her ear, "There's defensive protocol in place for this, right?"

"We can't lead her there!" Claire snapped as she attempted to maneuver the cart through the brush, "She'll wreak havoc! We have to try to lose her in the trees."

"Are you insane?" Fisher hollered, precisely at the moment that the great beast broke cover, pounding into view as she tailed their vehicle.

"Jesus!" Fisher screamed.

"I'm engaging!" The male agent twisted backwards and took aim.

"Unless you have a grenade launcher hidden in that suit, you'll only make her angry!" Claire yelled. She was ignored, of course. Gunshots rang through the air, some glancing off trees, other hitting their target and soliciting a thunderous roar.

The T-rex did not break off pursuit. Claire knew she wouldn't. Instead, she picked up speed at an alarming rate.

"Watch out!" Claire screamed as the beast launched itself at the golf cart. A heavy ram from its head sent the tiny vehicle flying, bouncing, rolling. Claire hit the dirt hard, battered and bleeding but lucky to have jumped when she did. Adrenalin pumped into her, forcing her to limp and crawl for cover.

She took shelter behind a clump of swollen roots, looking at the twisted remains of the overturned cart in horror. A hand, then an arm shot from underneath, and Claire watched the male agent drag himself from the wreck.

His eyes met hers, broken shades hanging off his broken nose. It was heartbreaking to see the defeat in the man's eyes as the massive shadow loomed over him with heaving breaths. In one swoop, the T-rex gathered him up in her mouth, tossing him into the air before she snapped her jaws shut.

Claire covered her mouth with her fist, tears filling her eyes and streaming down her face. She scrambled back further until she came upon a ditch under another swell of roots. It was likely the burrow of some woodland creature. Claire really didn't care. She wriggled inside, conscious of no major injuries as she squeezed her slender frame in the tiny space.

A giant set of claws rattled the ground inches from her face as the T-rex sniffed the air. Claire shut her eyes tightly, forcing her breath to regulate even though terror flooded her nerves. A long, agonizing minute stretched by before the animal moved on with a roar of outrage at having lost its prey.

Claire waited. She waited for what seemed like hours before she dared to emerge from her hideaway. Clothes full of dirt and insects and bruises mottling her skin, Claire attempted to determine her location based on her surroundings.

She had no idea where she was.

"Okay. Okay." Claire brushed her tangled hair back from her face and fished out her cell phone. The screen was destroyed, along with her chances of calling for help.

A violent coughing sound made Claire tear a path through the trees. She found Jolene Fisher curled in a ball under the roof of the golf cart.

"Oh my god. Okay, just…lie still." Claire kept a level head, although her voice and hands shook as she heaved the metal aside with a groan.

Fisher clutched her leg, "I…I can't move it."

"Well, you're going to have to." Claire assessed the limb with her limited medical knowledge and determined it was broken – but not severely. "We can't stay here. We're too close to the wall. Once it gets dark, we're toast. Give me your phone."

"I left it back at HQ."

"Are you kidding me right now?" To Claire, this was sacrilege – not to mention highly inconvenient.

"I didn't want Tucker trying to contact me while we were on our tour!" Fisher hissed between gasps of pain, "In hindsight, not my brightest move. Where's Smith? He had a phone."

"There's no gentle way to tell you this." Claire winced, "Smith didn't make it. And neither did his phone."

"Oh my god." Fisher choked out, and it was the first glimmer of empathy Claire had ever seen from her, "That's it. I'm evacuating the island before anyone else gets killed."

"Well glad as I am to hear that," Claire assessed the forest before deciding on a route, "we have to make it back alive first."

"How far to the base?" Fisher was a tough woman and, to her credit, she only grimaced as she allowed Claire to help her to one foot.

"Farther than we can walk with your leg like this." Claire slung Fisher's arm across her shoulders, "I'm going to get you someplace safe and then go for help alone."

"What?" The agent sounded alarmed as they began to hobble away, "Where could _possibly_ be safe between here and there?"

"Just leave that to me. Keep your voice down and your gun handy." Claire grunted under the weight of the woman as they plodded along.

She wore her poker face – the one that had never failed to assure potential investors. But inside, she was terrified. Two people (one injured) traveling on foot and virtually weaponless this close to the wall had pretty slim chances of reaching safety in time. Claire knew there was a sentry tower within a few miles in either direction, but that meant skirting the wall.

It was risk they'd have to take.

* * *

"Grady!" Tucker burst into the lab, shoving aside a white-clad geneticist in the process, "Where is that son of a bitch?"

"Right here, Tucker." Owen called out wearily, handing the last of the raptors to an assistant carefully, "What do you want?"

"I want to know what the hell your little girlfriend thinks she's pulling!" Tucker was sweating as usual, only it was becoming evident that the heat had little to do with it, "She's hijacked Agent Fisher, taken her off the grid for a little sight-seeing!"

"Yeah, I hear she does that." Owen cast a stern look at Stan as the boy opened his mouth eagerly.

"Best tour guide ever." Stan muttered with a grin.

"Well this time she's gone too far!" Tucker shook his handkerchief in Owen's face, "I'm suspending her from duty and banning her from headquarters!"

"You can't do that!" Stan, to everyone's surprise, stepped forward angrily, "Claire doesn't even _work_ for you!"

"Kid's got a point." Owen added calmly, even as he moved Stan back out of Tucker's personal space, "Claire's here on Masrani Corps behalf. They absorbed InGen years ago. You've got no jurisdiction."

"I am the authority on this island!" Tucker threw down his handkerchief as he flew into a rage, "I make the rules! And I know a conspiracy when I see one!"

"What _conspiracy_?" Owen's brow crinkled.

"You and Claire are out to frame me for involvement with Wu!" Tucker's beady eyes were wild, "I know you broke into my office. I showed Fisher the evidence!"

"You mean that grainy photo you were waving in Claire's face the other day?" Owen sighed patiently, "Tucker, that coulda been _anybody_."

"Except that the eyewitness who took the photo confirmed your identities!" The man spat, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the picture.

"Is that…you had it _laminated_?" Owen rubbed his jaw to hide a smirk, "Really?"

"Let me see that!" Stan snatched the photo before Tucker could stop him.

"Hey! That is _evidence_ , you little shit!" Tucker made a grab for it, but Stan leaped back a few feet, examining the photo with a squint.

"Huh."

"What?" Owen gave Tucker a single, threatening look before he moved behind his son to look over his shoulder.

"This is a screenshot from a security camera." The teenager declared, "Look at these digits. And the framing. This is that cam on the curb outside HQ!"

"This is theft. I'm calling security!" Tucker had his cell phone out, face red as a beet.

"Well, I'll be damned." Owen turned sharp eyes on the man, "There's no witness. You just invented one. So who's framing who, Tucker?"

"Get out! Get out of my lab, or so help me God, I'll have you tasered!"

"We're leaving! Keep your pants on. Come on, Stan."

They didn't see the dark, vengeful look Tucker shot at their backs, didn't catch the softly-muttered "We'll see who finds her first."

They should've.

"Who are you calling?" Stan asked as they stepped into the daylight.

"Claire." Owen held his phone to his ear, "She shouldn't be off-site with a T-rex on the loose."

"Claire can take care of herself."

"I didn't say she couldn't." His father responded evenly, frowning at his phone screen, "That's weird. Her phone's off."

"Maybe she wanted a break from nosy control freaks." Stan had obviously developed a little crush. Owen would have thought it was cute if he wasn't busy worrying about his girlfriend.

Claire's phone was _never_ off.

"Hey, Celia." He re-routed his efforts as he held up his phone, "You heard from Claire today?"

"That FBI agent wiped out her schedule!" Celia sounded outraged, "She said something about wanting Claire to show her around the island – like _that's_ in her job description!"

"Yeah. Did Claire say where they'd be? What time they were heading back?"

"No. I've been calling her for half an hour. Her phone's switched off."

Owen didn't like the turn the conversation was taking, "Could you try to get Fisher on the phone, find out what's up?"

Celia let out a sigh that resembled a growl, "I'm on my break."

"Thank you." Owen hung up, shook his head, and reminded himself to find Claire a new assistant, "Hey, Barry!"

"Owen!" His friend caught up to them, his face tight with displeasure. "Tucker's talking to the feds. He's trying to have you and Claire arrested."

"Yeah, great. Listen, I need you to take Stanley back to the cabin and meet me in…"

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Stan snapped, putting himself between the two men, "Where are you going?"

"To find Claire." Owen directed his next words at Barry, "See if you can get some of the guys, anyone who wants to help."

"I should go with you." Stan insisted, "I remember some of the places Claire took me. I could help."

"And I appreciate it," Owen raised his eyebrows, "but the best thing is for you to stay put in the cabin. We can't take passengers on this trip."

"Well then you shouldn't go either! You're still hurt from…"

"I'll be fine. That's why Barry's coming along."

"You don't have to come." Barry muttered quietly in his friend's ear, "We can find her without you, Owen. Maybe he is right."

"I said I'm fine."

"Are you insane?" Stan snapped, "You were in a coma for _three_ days!"

"If I slow you down, ditch me." Owen parried bluntly, opening the rucksack on his bike for his weapons, "We need an ID on their ride, as well as their last known location…"

"Dad, just STOP!" Stan burst out suddenly, yelling the words furiously and causing both men to jump. Owen froze, turning to face his son, who was clenching his fists and breathing heavily. Stan's face was flushed, but there was something desperate in his eyes.

Too late, Owen identified the core of Stan's outburst; he couldn't lose another parent.

"Sorry. Just…" Stan dragged a hand across his eyes angrily, "…do whatever you want."

"Shit." Owen breathed, "Stanley…"

"Don't worry. I'll stay in the freaking cabin!" His son spat out, turning on his heel and storming down the path towards the cabin, "Just find Claire!"

Owen put his hands on his hips and cursed.

Barry clapped him on the shoulder, "We'll find her." He promised quietly, before breaking into a jog on Stan's trail.

* * *

Claire looked up at the thunder rolling across the overcast horizon.

"Just what we need," She muttered, "a tropical storm."

Fisher glanced up at her from her position sprawled in the dirt. They'd stopped to rest after the agent started blacking out.

According to Claire's mental compass, they should have hit a tower by now. The afternoon was tepid and rain had already begun to spit through the trees. She knew they had to get to shelter, and fast.

"Come on." Claire held out her aching arm briskly, "We have to keep moving."

"Easy for you to say." Fisher was drenched in sweat, "You're not the one running this marathon on a broken leg."

"If you want to _keep_ your leg," Claire replied stonily, "I suggest we find cover before something comes along and _eats_ it."

"You are just _loving_ this, aren't you?" Fisher drawled as she took Claire's hand and rose to one leg, "Last time we met, you were the villain. Now you get to play the hero."

"I'm not _playing_ anything. This isn't a game, Agent Fisher. This is life and death. Now let's go."

It was grueling work, hiking through the woods in the rain. At one point, a snake slithered across their path, seeking shelter from the storm. It seemed ridiculous to be afraid of it when Claire knew what else they might encounter. They pushed on as the rain fell harder.

"Look!" Fisher called, relief flooding her voice as a tall building came into view.

"We made it!" Claire breathed in disbelief, "Come on!" She bolstered the agent in her grip as they trudged through the soggy grass.

They didn't notice the blur darting through the trees behind them.

"Hello?" Claire pounded on the watch tower's heavy set of doors.

The only sound that met her was a groan as they creaked open.

She frowned, blinking away raindrops as she peered inside, "Hello?"

"Where are the guards?" Fisher had propped herself up against the wall. She had to yell over the torrential downpour.

"I don't know!" Claire insisted, "I think this might be one of the new towers under construction."

They ducked under the water falling in sheets from the ledge above the door as they entered. Fisher collapsed onto a huddled group of cement bags as Claire shoved the doors closed with all her might. "Looks like you were right. I thought all your towers were manned twenty-four seven."

"They keep building new ones as the wall's construction progresses." Claire brushed her soaking-wet hair away from her face.

"At least it has walls and a roof." Fisher glanced around.

The dusty ground floor room was bare except for chairs, a table, and the odd forgotten tool.

Fisher eased herself into one of the seats and poked at the plastic bags on the table, "Looks like the workers left some food. You want a half-eaten sandwich or one-third of a burrito?"

Claire had already tuned her out, taking in the circular room as the rain beat down on its windows.

"This looks like a circuit breaker." She ran a hand over a fresh panel, tugging it open to reveal a mesh of wires, "Wow. Okay. I can do this."

"You're not actually going to _touch_ those, right?" Fisher's mouth was full of food.

"The watch towers have operating signals that help them inter-coordinate." Claire checked that the breaker was killed as she spoke, "If I can hook this up somehow, I might be able to get someone's attention."

"Hot-wiring in a thunderstorm? You've got _my_ attention!" Fisher slammed down her burrito, "It's suicide. We should hole up till the rain blows over and then make a break for the base."

"Well, thanks for your input." Claire snapped, then froze at a scuffle that echoed through the tower. "Did you hear that?"

"It's probably just the storm." Fisher's cynical expression was illuminated in a flash of lightening not far off.

Claire felt her throat seize up as the noise grew louder, faster, closer.

"It's not the storm."

"Then it's probably nothing!" The agent sounded nervous. Her hand fell to her gun.

"This is Isla Nublar." Claire clutched the edge of the table as the shuffling stopped dead outside the door, "It's _never_ nothing."

The door rattled as though a thousand cats were scratching at it. Claire grabbed the closest available weapon – a wrench – and backed up to stand by Fisher.

The door burst open. Fisher raised her gun. Claire hefted the wrench.

A pint-sized creature with a long tail skittered into the room. It cocked its head at the women, scuttling forward before it pawed at the air curiously.

Fisher scoffed, "Jesus," She lowered her gun, "It's just a goddamn baby."

"That's not a baby." Claire whispered, horrified, "It's a full-grown Compy."

The dinosaur bared its teeth, hopping onto one of the chairs.

"Wait, what?" Fisher's gun rose again, "I thought InGen discontinued cloning after the Bowman incident!"

"I guess…nature found a way."

"Well, should I shoot it?"

"Compys are typically scavengers. Maybe it's just hungry." Claire watched the dinosaur closely as she inched a hand towards the leftover burrito beside her.

Fisher kept her gun trained on the animal, but her eyes darted nervously to other woman.

"Be careful."

Just as Claire extended the food towards the Compy, a dozen more burst through the open doorway. The tiny creatures launched themselves like projectile missiles at the women. Claire swung her wrench wildly, while Fisher pried the Compys from her and fired off random shots.

They were overwhelmed by numbers. Tiny teeth tore at their hands, legs and faces. Every time they shook one lose, another would latch on.

Claire smashed her wrench into a fallen Compy's skull, crushing it even as another one chewed on her arm.

"There are too many!" Fisher yelled between yelps of pain as she wrestled.

"Just keep fighting!" Claire punctuated her statement by slamming herself against the wall and dislodging two Compys digging into her back. Fisher hit one with the butt of her gun, and three more jumped her. When one of them bit her broken leg, she tumbled to the floor and was instantly swamped.

"Jolene!" Claire fought to her side, kicking and swinging and yanking.

She didn't even notice the heavy thudding on the floor until the Raptor was right there, in the room. It shrieked ferociously, blasting its voice through the tower. The Compys panicked and scattered, abandoning their prey. The raptor hissed and snapped at the tiny animals as they darted from the room.

"Oh my god. Blue." Claire breathed, "No!" She shoved Fisher's gun down as the woman took aim, "Don't. Move."

Blue was drenched, water rolling off her incredible body. She was favoring her left hind leg heavily, bent at an angle as she clicked in her throat.

Claire had no idea what would happen next. Blue could eat her, or both of them, or neither of them. There was no telling what the raptor was capable of – or wanted.

Blue inclined her head, pushing her snout against Claire's face and scaring her to death. Claire closed her eyes tightly, tears escaping, as Blue sniffed at her hair and clothes. Abruptly, the raptor leaned back on her haunches, and with a snarl, she limped out the door.

Claire slumped back, heart racing, stunned to be alive.

"Why is it doing that?" Fisher's shaky whisper alerted her to the fact that Blue was standing in the doorway, raking her hind claws through the mud.

Claire knew her fair share about dinosaurs, but she was hardly a behavioral pattern expert like Owen. She squinted in confusion as Blue stood outside doorway with a cocked head.

"I…it can't be."

"What? If it's gonna eat us, what the hell is it waiting for?"

Claire felt disbelief as the words left her mouth, "I think she's standing guard."

* * *

 _ **So I hate to keep harping on about reviews. It makes me look so needy. But I really do thrive on feedback. Opinions, suggestions, constructive criticism - it's all welcome, guys. Share your views! - Tyler**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**So, in honor of reaching the hundred page mark on this story, I present you with the longest chapter yet! I am starting a new job (for which I have to get up insanely early), so updates might be slower. See how I cushioned that for you all? Ain't I the best? Shout-out to Katarina Aguilar and my other Guests reviewers. Just because I can't PM you, doesn't mean I don't read and love your reviews. And to ALL my readers, please enjoy and keep reviewing! - Tyler**_

* * *

Owen Grady was a man of action. An avid sports fan through his school years, a career in the Navy had suited him well. It had also brought him to the attention of his superiors. Owen's outstanding work with dolphins in the US Navy Marine Mammal Program had earned him a spot on the Alpha project.

Slapped with a budget and a deadline by Hoskins, Owen had largely flown by the seat of his pants when it came to imprinting on and fostering the raptors. He'd attended seminars, studied textbooks, gotten a few certificates under his belt. But Owen had refused to allow Hoskins to pressure him. He'd worked with the raptors cautiously, patiently, building a rapport of trust and understanding. They became his children – giant, sharp-teethed children whose temper tantrums might or might involve bloodshed and death.

When Blue had turned on Owen, it had hurt. But he'd directed his anger where it belonged. Hoskins had forced the raptors into a field test that wasn't a drill long before they were ready. He'd paid for it with his life. So had Echo, Delta and Charlie. Owen took comfort in the fact that Blue was running free in the wilds of Isla Nublar. It was his one consolation.

Yes, Owen Grady was a man of action. Which is why he felt immense frustration when a tropical storm slowed progress on their search for Claire. Sheets of rain washed out the roads and pathways, turning the terrain into treacherous sludge. A heavy shower obstructed visibility, and their bike tires sank into thick, deep mud and stalled.

Two men and one woman from InGen's security contingent had volunteered to join the search. Owen had no idea who they were. He just knew that he was grateful.

"We can keep going on foot!" One of the men yelled over the rain, droplets glistening in his heavy beard.

"Over here!" The woman – Tessa, Owen thought her name was – was crouched in the mud behind a thicket of trees. As the others neared, they took in the sight of a twisted golf car wreck.

"This their ride?" Tessa glanced up at Owen, her helmet dwarfing her heart-shaped face.

Owen swallowed heavily and moved full-circle around the wreckage. "No bodies." He whispered with a sigh of relief.

"No tracks, either." Barry called out, "Let's fan out! Jerry, North, Cole, East, Tessa, West, and we'll go South!"

"Half a mile, no further!" Owen added, "You find something, call it in and wait for backup!"

"The T-rex is still out there." Tessa hefted her weapon under her waterproof gear.

"First sign of trouble, you beat the scene!" Owen addressed the men as well, "Do _not_ engage!"

The group parted ways. The rain beat down mercilessly. Small currents of water began to rush downhill, and Owen's boot caught a slick, wet rock. He skidded and buckled forward, but Barry jerked his elbow.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine!"

"Maybe you should wait by the bikes."

"Maybe you should shut your face!"

They soldiered on.

"Look at this!" Barry aimed the nozzle of his weapon at a pile of wet leaves. Owen nudged them with his foot, revealing a sleek, white rectangle.

He bent to pick it up, letting out a hiss of pain he was glad the rain disguised, "Looks like Claire's phone."

"If she escaped, she's probably found shelter. No sense making for base on foot in a storm like this one…" Barry stopped mid-speech as Owen's hand clamped down on his arm. He followed his friend's rigid gaze to a tiny animal sprinting over a fallen log.

"Is that…?" Barry ground out in disbelief, "It _can't_ be…"

"That's a homegrown Compy right there." Owen cocked his gun, "I'll be damned."

A deep, ragged scream echoed to their right.

"Jerry!" Barry's eyes widened.

"Go!" Owen yelled at him, "I'll take care of this one!"

The man broke into a run towards the distant cries.

Owen turned back to the Compy, but it was gone. He cursed himself for having taken his eyes off the creature and backed against a tree, weapon drawn.

* * *

Barry shot through the grass, batting branches aside as he ran towards Jerry's screams for help. Gunshots rang through the air. Barry cleared a winding rush of water and spotted Jerry on the ground. Six – no, seven – Compys were astride him, gnawing at his face and hands as he curled into a fetal position. Blood colored the puddles in the mud.

Barry blasted the closest Compy right in the kisser. He didn't wait for it to hit the ground before he leapt to Jerry's side, tossing the animals from his body. Tiny teeth assaulted Barry's fingers and wrists. He shook free of them and rolled Jerry over.

Jerry's throat was a gaping hole. He clutched Barry's arm with wide, panicked eyes as he choked on his own blood.

Then, he was gone.

With a cry of outrage, Barry flung the Compys biting at his arm against a tree trunk, leaping out of the ditch where Jerry had fallen. He broke into a run.

"Compys!" He yelled as loudly as he could, "Compys! Get the hell out, get _out_!"

Tessa looked up at the echoed yell, grit her teeth, and resumed her path.

* * *

Cole heard the screams, but was distracted by the gunshots coming from a ways off. He hiked through the mud and filth to a brace of rocks where someone – Owen – was taking crack shots at a pair of lithe animals pouncing off of tree branches.

Owen had the high ground, but he was bleeding from bite marks to his jaw and throat, and the pallor of his face suggested his weakness had caught up to him.

Cole waved his hands at the Compys, "Hey!"

Their beady eyes rolled in their sockets as they turned on him, claws extended. The moment of stillness was all that was needed. Owen's weapon blasted a hole through both Compys before they knew what hit them.

Owen put his hands on his knees, "Thanks, man."

"The hell are those things?" Cole nudged one with his foot.

Owen cupped his wounded neck and winced. "Extinct."

A rustle in the leaves announced Barry's return. He was panting.

"They got Jerry!"

"What?"

"The Compys, they killed Jerry!" Barry looked over his shoulder as he reloaded his weapon.

"They _killed_ him? How many _are_ there?" Cole looked horrified.

"Too many. Where's Tessa?"

As if on cue, staccato gunfire sounded off outside the tree line. The men raced towards it, rain still beating down on them, endangering their footsteps.

Owen cleared the trees in time to watch Tessa beat another Compy to death with the butt of her gun. She was sprawled in the mud, helmet knocked loose and one eyebrow etched in bloody teeth marks.

Cole and Barry rushed forward, helping her to feet.

"Where's Jerry?" She eyed them warily.

Owen and Barry exchanged pained looks, and Tessa's eyes filled with tears.

"Shit." Her face collapsed for a moment as she heaved a sob into her fist. Then she regained her composure.

"Over there." She stabbed a gloved finger at a half-built structure, "My money's on the tower."

The bedraggled group approached the open doors with caution. Owen took point, his weapon primed and his eyes sharp. He'd barely gotten up the first step when a panicked yell made him jump.

Tessa was standing face-to-face with a velociraptor.

Cole raised his gun, and Barry shoved it back down again.

"No!"

The raptor bared her teeth, preparing to lunge.

Owen dive-tackled Tessa, knocking her to the ground and extending both hands in front of him.

"What the hell is he doing?" Cole demanded breathlessly. Barry ignored him, inching forward to drag Tessa out of the raptor's immediate reach.

"Blue," Owen narrowed his eyes, voice commanding, "stand down."

She hissed at him, eyes focused over his shoulder at what she considered to be fair game.

"Hey!" Owen snapped, "Are you hungry? Is that it? There's a dead Compy right behind you, look!"

Blue snarled and attempted to side-step Owen. Her bad leg twisted and gave out, sending her sprawling onto her belly.

"Woah." He dropped to his knees in the mud as she panted in pain, "Let me see that."

Blue arched away and swiped her tail at his head as Owen's hand reached for her leg.

"Hey, don't be like that, now! Just let me help you!"

Cautiously, painfully slowly, his palm rested on the raptor's flank as her head hit the dirt. Blue moaned softly, the anguished sound transforming her from a deadly beast into an injured animal.

"Okay. It's okay." Owen ran his hand gently over her leg, mouth tightening as he felt the break. "I'll take care of it, Blue."

"Owen!"

The familiar cry was like a jolt of lightening in a clear blue sky. He leaped to his feet, closing the distance between them just as she barreled into him. Owen felt he couldn't ever hold her tight enough or close enough again. He buried his face in her tangled, wet hair as she fairly choked him in her embrace.

"Oh, thank God." Claire whispered, voice hitching, in his ear.

Owen pried her apart from his long enough to cup her face in his hands. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists.

"I'm okay." Claire reassured him as he ran a thumb over her many cuts and bruises, "I'm okay."

"Fisher?"

"Inside. She's hurt."

The faint sputtering of an engine pulled them from their reunion. Owen and Barry clutched their weapons as the fog-lights of a jeep lit up the rain around their heads.

Blue moaned from her position on the ground, but didn't stir.

Owen did enough stirring for both of them once the driver of the jeep hung his head out the window.

"Hey! Figured you'd need a ride!" Stan called, then froze at the sight of Blue laying prone on the ground behind his father.

"You figured wrong." Owen said in a calm voice that belied the fury in his eyes.

Claire squeezed his arm reproachfully and stepped forward to contradict, "Well, since you're here…"

* * *

The shiny Wrangler tore a path through the rain. Owen had the wheel, Stan was riding shotgun. Claire and Tessa were in the backseat with Fisher spread over their laps.

Barry had stayed behind with Blue, and Cole had gone for tranquilizer food pellets and a selection of trusted medics from Masrani Corps. Owen had charged him not to notify _any_ of Tucker's people. Blue would be sedated and taken to one of the abandoned paddocks on the far side of the island for treatment.

Claire's head popped up between the seats, "We need to get Fisher to the clinic."

"You and her both." Owen worked the windshield wipers, "So the Compys…any light to shed?"

"There weren't any in the park. We didn't even have their DNA samples." Claire shook her head, "Where could they have come from?"

"I got a theory," Owen squinted at her in the rearview, "but you ain't gonna like it."

"Try me."

"Tucker cornered us in the lab this morning, real pissed you took off with Fisher."

"He started waving around that photo," Stan bragged, "but I totally smoked his ass."

"If I were you, I'd be seen and not heard for the rest of this trip."

"So, what? Tucker has a pack of Compys he keeps in the basement?" Claire squelched the potential argument, returning to the topic at hand.

"Wouldn't put it past him." Owen declared grimly.

"Even if he had a secret that huge and managed to keep it, why would he sic them on us?" She continued, "He knows the feds will shut him down at the first sign of trouble."

"It's not as a crazy as it sounds." Fisher spoke up weakly from the back seat, "I'm the only one with that kind of authority on the island. He knew I was looking for answers and he knew you'd give them. Maybe he figured getting rid of us both would buy him some time."

Claire scowled, "To do what?"

"To take out the T-rex. Or to relocate the base. He'd never get funding or approval for another site after this disaster."

Claire thought fast, "If Tucker really did send the Compys after us, it means he's desperate."

"And dangerous." Fisher added, "We can't prove it."

Claire nodded, "We have to strategize. Come up with a plan to keep him off our backs till you can shut down the facility and evacuate."

"If you ask me, we should…"

"Seen and not heard, Stan!"

"Never mind." He muttered as Owen shot him an eyeful of warning.

"Who's the kid, by the way?" Fisher's teeth were grit as they bounced over a rugged path.

"Oh, where are my manners? Agent Fisher, this is my pain-in-the-ass-doesn't-do-as-he's-told son Stanley. Stanley, this is Special Agent Fisher, who's promised to look the other way while I _kill_ you."

"Nice to meet you." Stan threw out breezily.

"Gotta say, your timing was perfect back there." Jolene craned her neck to face him, "How did you find us?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets. Ow!" Stan winced as Owen reached over and smacked the back of his head.

"Better start talking, Houdini!"

"Okay! I tracked the GPS in Owen's phone. Once the streets started flooding, I figured you guys might need a ride."

"Uh huh. And whose _ride_ do we happen to _be_ in?" His father growled as the base lights glowed through the mist.

"I don't know. It was just lying around."

"With the keys in the ignition?"

"Those were lying around…you know…elsewhere."

"Elsewhere as in someone's pocket?"

"Owen, I think I recognize this jeep." Claire glanced at the upholstery.

"So do I. Oh my god, it's Randall's!"

"Abracadabra." Stan pointed his finger with a sardonic smile. Owen glared at him, invisible steam jetting from his ears.

"And….I'm grounded. Again."

"O-ho, you are _way_ past grounded. In fact, give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn't turn you over my knee!"

It was an empty threat. It wasn't _even_ a threat. Everybody knew it, including Stan.

"Uh, because I just saved your asses? Agent Fisher can't ride a motorbike with a broken leg? Corporal punishment is outdated? That just would be really, really weird?"

"I get it." Owen scraped a hand across his face, exhausted.

"I got more."

"Save it for Oprah, boys." Claire took control of reins, "We're almost at base. While you two were butting heads, Fisher and I came up with the plan. Just follow our lead."

* * *

Tucker looked up from his computer as Randall burst into his office.

"Damn it! Doesn't anybody knock around here anymore?" He rapidly shrunk the various windows he had open on his desktop. Files, reports, statistics – all from Henry Wu. They'd found additional funding from a third party and were ready to begin cloning the new I-rex. It would smaller, sleeker, deadlier than the first.

And together they would sell it for trillions of dollars to whichever country wanted it the most. Wu said North Korea had already made a staggering offer.

The only thing standing in his way was Claire Dearing. If she handed the stolen files over to Masrani Corps, or worse, to Agent Fisher, Wu's lab would be busted and their hard work confiscated – most likely destroyed.

Tucker had spent twenty-eight years paying his dues at InGen, waiting for a shot at the top. And now, just when he'd been in line for a seat on the board, he was shipped off to Isla Nublar to clean up a mess he hadn't even made. It was a humiliating blow he wouldn't take lying down.

Six months from now, he'd be in Fiji, knocking back a mixed drink and feeling up a Hula girl.

As long as he took care of Claire Dearing first.

"Thought you should know; Fisher's turned up in the clinic with a busted leg." Randall was soaked, even through his designer raincoat, "Says she got jumped by the T-rex a click from the Eastern wall. Her agent didn't make it."

"Damn it!" Tucker slammed a fist onto his desk, "And Dearing?"

"Holed up with Grady in his cabin. That ass-hat dragged a search party out on the sly and got Jerry Tanner killed!" Randall pulled off his hood, face red with fury.

"That son of a bitch!"

"Fisher's going on about a pack of Compys running wild. Says she's gonna shut us down!" Randall gave him a pointed look, "You know anything about any Compys?"

"Do I look like the Dinosaur Man? Why don't you ask Grady while you're throwing his ass in lock-up?" Tucker rose to his feet, "I've had enough of that bastard undermining my authority! Get security on him, _now_!"

"That punk kid of his stole my jeep, as well." Randall muttered as he helped himself to Tucker's Scotch, "I took him under my wing, and this is how the little asshole thanks me?"

"So arrest them _both_! I told you it was stupid trusting that kid. Owen might not've raised him, but he's a Grady alright. Lying, thieving sons of bitches, the both of them."

"I just thought it might be useful to have Junior on our side!"

"You're not paid to think. Now get out of my office and do your goddamn job!"

Randall left, slamming the door in his wake. Tucker cursed, swiping out a fist and knocking a Triceratops horn off its stand. He cupped a hand over his mouth and jabbed the other onto his hip as he paced the room.

Pausing by the computer, he pulled up a file shrank down to the toolbar. A digital map of the island sprang up, sporting a concentrated cluster of red dots huddled by the eastern wall.

Tucker's mouth twisted. "Only five of you left? Are you kidding me?"

The Compy pack was a parting gift from Wu. He wanted to ensure that Tucker was equipped to handle any 'delicate situations' as he'd put it. Tucker had an underground paddock where an old pal of Wu's (who was on the FBI's most-wanted list for a slew of scientific atrocities) kept them fed and watered.

Tucker knew that unleashing the pack on Claire had been a mistake. The woman was proving to be a darn sight more than a pretty face, and the fact that she had Grady, and now Fisher, in her pocket made her a formidable enemy. And that was when she _hadn't_ been on her guard.

Tucker filled a glass from the Scotch decanter and brought it to his lips. He needed to divide and conquer – the age-old motto hadn't failed Aesop's lion, and it wouldn't fail him. But he needed a new strategy to achieve that.

"Fucking Randall." Tucker muttered as he realized the man had left his glass half-empty. Or was it half-full?

 _I thought it might be useful to have Junior on our side._ The words echoed in his ears.

Impulsively, Tucker took to his chair once more and ran a search for Corine Simmons.

* * *

Claire watched the rain beat mercilessly against the window pane. The overhead security lights lit up the droplets, creating glittering downstream rivers. Thunder rumbled, and she shivered, wrapping her hands around her biceps.

A warm, woolen blanket was draped over her shoulders. Claire smiled appreciatively at the reflection in the glass.

"It ain't a Gucci blazer," Owen enveloped her slim waist in his arms from behind, "but it does wonders on a chilly night."

"Mmm, I've heard it's all the rage." She tilted her head back to plant a kiss on his bearded cheek.

"I'm thinkin' bout starting up a line. I could blow Kanye outta the water at New York Fashion Week."

"I think he already put one of these on a model. A lot more threadbare, though. Holes everywhere. And it was beige."

"Mine would be black." Owen nuzzled into her freshly-washed hair, "For ninjas. And sexy red-heads on kamikaze missions."

Claire straightened, slipping artfully out of the embrace. She turned to face Owen.

"Are you saying I should just give up? Let Tucker get away with this?"

"I'm saying you already got enough evidence to take him down." Owen caught up her hand, tracing his thumb over a scabbing knuckle, "You can do that someplace else."

"Where, exactly?"

"Anywhere but here!" Owen met Claire's severe gaze with one of his own, "I talked to Fisher. She's gonna get you and Stan out on the fed's boat before she even announces the evacuation."

"What?" Claire's voice rose, and Owen put a finger to his lips. She took a deep breath and followed his eyes to the bedroom door. When she spoke again, it was quieter, but no less deadly.

"What about you?"

"Fisher wants me to stay for the evacuation, make sure everything goes smoothly and the animals are handled well." Owen placed a hand on each of Claire's shoulders as she began to protest, "I know you hate being told what to do. I'm not telling, I'm _asking_. Hell, I'm begging."

"I am _not_ leaving you in this godforsaken hell hole alone." She informed him staunchly.

Owen threw up his hands, turning away and rubbing his face. When he came back around, it was to stab an index finger at his girlfriend.

"You are such a hypocrite, you know that? After all the times I backed off when you asked me to…"

"That is _not_ the same thing. You are asking me to _abandon_ you!"

"You almost died today!" Owen's yell was such a sudden change in tempo, it left Claire speechless, "Do you understand that? Do you have _any_ idea what it felt like?"

"Yes." She whispered softly. He shook his head, hands on his hips as he showed her his back.

Claire sighed, sidling up behind Owen and resting her hands atop his broad shoulders. He stiffened, but when she nestled her forehead between the hollow of his shoulder blades, she felt him slacken.

"I can't lose you." He whispered shakily, the anger draining from his voice, "I need you for survival, Claire. Remember?"

"Then I guess we should stick together." She murmured into the fabric of his white, cotton shirt, "Like we promised."

When he finally turned to face her, there was something akin to desperation – and resignation- in his eyes. Owen gently cupped her chin in his palm, tilting her head back and pressing his lips against hers. Claire melted into his embrace, locking her arms at the base of his neck.

Tenderly, yet firmly, Owen hoisted her onto the windowsill, lips still moving in time with her own. Claire carded her fingers through his hair, a slow fire building in her gut. His hands caressed her back, her shoulders, her waist – exploring every inch of her.

The blanket dropped to the floor.

And then came the call.

"Dad?"

Claire broke away. "Did you hear something?" She panted.

"No." Owen's lips worked their way down her neck.

" _Dad_!"

The call was unmistakable – and persistent. Owen groaned and rested his head against Claire's breastbone.

"Go to bed, Stan!"

"You need to come out here!"

"What's he doing, anyway?" Claire's face was flushed as they grudgingly untangled.

"I'm thinking twenty to life after the little stunt he pulled today." Owen muttered as he headed for the door, yanking his shirt back down over his abs.

"You're being _way_ too hard on him." Claire smoothed her ruffled hair and slid off the windowsill to follow.

Stan was standing in the front door, one arm across the threshold. Over his shoulder, Owen and Claire made out the rain-soaked figures of Randall and three other men from the wall crew.

"Dad, you got company." The teenager announced a little too brightly.

 _That's the third 'dad' in as many minutes_. Owen grew sober, _The kid is scared to death._

"Randall!" He put on a confident grin, placing a hand on Stan's shoulder. Surprisingly, his son took the cue, backing up to stand beside Claire.

"Picked a pretty rough night for a social call." Owen squinted at the rain, "I'd invite you in, but the missus is real touchy about mud in the house, so…"

"Don't fuck with me, Grady." Randall snarled, "I'm not in the mood."

"Wait, _I_ know what this is about." Owen rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, "You're sore about your Wrangler, aren't ya? Hey, Stan!" He called over his shoulder, "Get over here."

"Tucker sent us to take you in…" Randall began, spitting rain water, but Owen was ignoring him.

"Stanley," The former Navy officer steered his un-amused son by the shoulders, "Tell the man you're sorry for stealing his jeep."

"Are you _serious_?"

"Apologize, Stanley!"

The teenager clenched his jaw, eyes boring a hole in the floor, "M'sorry."

"Once more with feeling." Owen rattled his shoulders gleefully.

"I'm sorry for stealing your jeep!" Stan snapped, shoving Owen's hand off him and ducking out of sight. If the word _asshole_ was muttered, it was overlooked.

"Kids these days, am I right?" Owen leaned against the doorpost, arms folded across his chest, "If you want, I can have him to wash it for you."

"I don't want that little bastard anywhere near it! I gave him a spot on my crew with _zero_ qualifications and in return, he steals my car keys!"

Owen made no reply, but his eyes shot sideways once. Only once. Then they were back on Randall.

"Well, your sticky-fingered Gremlin ain't even why I'm here!" Randall yelled, "Tucker's bringing you in. He's holding you for the death of Jerry Tanner!"

"Jerry was a good man." Owen's face grew serious in a heartbeat, "He died protecting us from a pack of Compys. You ever seen a Compy, Randall?"

"Don't start with that shit. Get in the car before things turn ugly."

"Uglier than that guy?" Owen raised his eyebrows, nodding at the thug to Randall's left, "No offence, Bigfoot."

"Okay, enough." Claire wheedled her way to Owen's side, "He's not going anywhere with you. We both know you don't have any real authority. I think we _also_ know that if the feds were going to slap Owen – or Stanley – with charges, they would've done so by now."

"This doesn't concern you, Dearing!" Randall sputtered with rage, "Why don't you butt the hell out before that pretty little mouth of yours gets…"

Randal didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't, because Owen's fist connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling in the mud. A boot met his stomach, winding him and rolling him onto his back. He groaned in pain.

"Back the hell up!" Owen yelled, and no one was quite sure when he'd drawn the handgun. They just knew it was trained on Randall's thugs. The men exchanged a glance before they lifted their palms and backed away.

"Agh…I'm gonna kill you, Grady!" Randall howled through bloody teeth as he clutched his stomach.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch." Owen squatted down beside him, voice low and dangerous, "I'm only gonna warn you _once_ ; you come near my family again, and you and me are gonna dance. And I don't mean the Tango."

"You're dead…" Randall was on his elbows, crawling away through the mud, "You hear me, Grady? You're a fucking dead man!"

"Tell your story walking, pal!"

Randall's companions hoisted him to his feet and shoved him the car. Eyes trained on Owen's gun still pointed in their direction, the two men grudgingly ducked inside the vehicle. Owen watched it as it sped into the night. Only when he was certain it was gone did he shut and lock the door.

"Tucker's lost it." Claire was the first to comment on the encounter. "I'm calling Jolene. He's crossed his last goddamn line." She stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Stan was on the sofa, scribbling furiously in his dilapidated notebook. His lips pursed as Owen stood above him.

"If you're just gonna stand there and _loom_ , I'm putting my headphones on."

"I told you not to open the door tonight."

"Yeah, guess I forgot. Stupid."

"Did you _forget_ to stay in the cabin, as well?"

The scribbling paused.

"I don't say things to hear myself talk, Stan."

"I know. Sorry."

Sighing in acceptance, Owen eased himself onto the sofa, resting his elbows on his spread knees.

"Does that hurt?" Stan nodded at the reddened knuckles on his father's right hand.

"Not as much as Randall does." Owen flexed his fingers absently.

"I'm glad you hit him. The guy's a dick."

"That why you were working for him?"

Stan finally made eye contact, "It just sorta happened. I wanted out once he put me on the wall crew, though."

"Hindsight's twenty-twenty." Owen agreed, but his tone made Stanley wince inwardly. After a moment of silence, the man continued, "I don't _ever_ want you out by the wall again."

"After the past two days, you don't have to twist my arm."

"And you'd better steer clear of Randall. Tucker, as well. I catch you with either of'em, you're dead. You understand me?"

"Fine."

"Try again."

"Yes, sir."

"I was proud of you today." Owen murmured, his tone softening, eyes trained on the floor, "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm pissed you didn't stay put, but the truth is your timing _was_ kind of…you know, perfect."

Stan blinked heavily. "I gotta…bathroom." He shot off the sofa and sped like an angry tornado from the room.

"Everything okay?" Claire emerged from the bedroom just as the bathroom door slammed shut.

"You get through to Jolene?" Owen rose to his feet.

"She's wiped out on meds. Maria will call me once she comes to." She took his swollen hand gently, "Let's get some ice on this, huh?"

He cracked a tender smile as she led him to the fridge, procuring a bag of frozen peas which she placed over his knuckles.

"You know, as much as I appreciate you playing the hero," Claire said with a sly grin, "I kind of wish it had been _me_ who sucker-punched Randall back there."

"Oh…I'm sorry." Owen raised his eyebrows in mock-concern, "Did I steal your thunder? 'Cause we could totally hunt him down for you if you wanted."

"See, there you go again." She patted his broad chest playfully, "My knight in shining armor."

"I'm more of a wolf in sheep's clothing. _Ninja_ clothing, actually. This is just my downtime garb."

She arched one eyebrow and appraised the tight-fitting shirt, "I think it's time to move this conversation to a more…private setting."

"Phil Cummings would be proud."

* * *

 _ **So I will be stuck at my new (and rather boring) job all day tomorrow. You know what would brighten my life? Some FEEDBACK! HIT THE BUTTON! - Tyler**_

13


	12. Chapter 12

_**So this was written in bits and pieces, commuting to and from work, drowsily clacking away in the odd wee hour, etc. Might come off as a bit fragmented, I don't know. In any case, love it or hate it, here's chapter 12 of In Loco Parentis. I really want to thank all the people who've inspired me to continue writing. Your reviews are like music to my ears! And to all new readers (yeah I see you people, your faves and follows come to my inbox), I would love it bunches if you let me know your thoughts on this baby!- Tyler**_

* * *

Claire Dearing was a woman of ambition. From heading up student committees, to hosting fundraisers and pitching big ideas to even bigger corporations at a very young age, Claire had been voted 'Most Likely to Succeed' in school – and spent her entire life attaining that status.

Everything Claire Dearing did, she did with precision. Even when she'd been a doe-eyed apprentice at Masrani Corps, her skills set did not go unnoticed. Long before she'd even paid her dues, Claire had been hauled up the promotion ladder by Simon Masrani. He'd set her up as the assistant assets manager at his shiny, new theme park – Jurassic World.

Many others would have shrank away from such a daunting task. Claire thrived on it. Her often ruthless pragmatism was the yin to Simon's yang. Once again, Claire rocketed upwards, going from assistant to senior assets manager, then head of park operations.

After the series of events triggered by the I-rex escape, Claire had floundered, uncertain for the first time in her life as to whether her ambition was her Achilles Heel. She'd had Owen to support her, but their relationship, although forged through the flames of hardship, had been as new and daunting as her future.

Used to dealing with the flighty, whimsical Simon Masrani, Claire had come up against an enigma in Owen Grady. Sure, he was sarcastic and dismissive (and a huge, huge flirt). But he also had a level head and plenty of experience digging his way out of problems. And, like Claire, Owen was used to giving orders. They had found themselves fighting for the reins so often that it nearly destroyed their relationship…

Until they'd realized that they had to respect each other enough to _share_ them.

Yes, Claire Dearing was a woman of ambition. Which is why she found it incredibly hard work to play dumb in the face of Tucker's blatant assassination attempt. Her and Fisher's plan to give the man enough rope to hang himself was a sound, but painful, strategy.

Still, it didn't mean she could just sit around avoiding the man. After all, there was work to do. An evacuation didn't just plan itself.

Claire slipped out of bed before the sun had fully risen. Owen was still tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling in soft waves. She paused, admiring the view, and resisting the urge to feel guilty about crushing pain meds into his dinner. Owen was still healing, and yesterday's events had taken a toll on his progress. If he'd thought his winces and gasps would go unnoticed, he was wrong.

Stan was snoring softly on the sofa-bed, heavy bass thumping from his headphones. Claire kicked aside a pile of clothes on her way out.

"Like father, like son." She muttered.

When Claire arrived at the clinic, she saw two of Fisher's people standing guard outside. The burly men were stopping anyone who attempted to enter. Off to one side, Tucker and his entourage were engaged in heated conversation with another agent.

Claire approached the clinic door, eyebrows raised in apprehension, "What happened here?" She addressed one of the suit-clad men.

He removed his shades, "Miss Dearing? You're cleared for entry. Agent Fisher is waiting for you inside."

"But what's going on?"

"There was an attempt made on Agent Fisher's life last night. She fought off her assailant, but they fled before we were able to apprehend them."

"Oh my god." Claire breathed in disbelief, "Well, aren't there cameras in the clinic?"

"Mr. Tucker is denying our agents access to the files. He insists they obtain a warrant."

"I see." Claire nodded at the man as she hurried inside. The hallway was a mess. Broken glass lay in fragments along one length that had been taped off by the feds. They were mingled with droplets of dried blood.

Claire reached Fisher's room and sighed in relief to see the woman in relative health. The only new addition to her injuries was a nasty black eye.

The special agent nodded at the smartly-dressed young woman beside her, excusing her as Claire walked in. The two were alone in moments.

"Does no one ever bring balloons in this lousy place?" Fisher broke the ice with a dry jab.

"I brought muffins." Claire extracted a steaming Tupperware from her tote bag.

"Chocolate?"

"Gluten-free."

"Well, aren't you a riot?" Fisher lay back on her pillow, "It's a wonder Grady hasn't offed himself."

Claire ignored the comment, occupying the seat beside the woman's bed. She crossed one slender leg over the other, "What happened? Who attacked you?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be twisting Tucker's arm for the security footage." Fisher reached onto her desk and bit down on a cigarette, "Aren't gonna tell on me, are you? I'm still all nerves."

"It's your body."

"Goddamn perp nearly had me for a minute." Fisher's hands shook slightly as she lit up, "I was flying high on meds. I really don't remember much."

"They told me you fought whoever it was off."

"Yeah, guess I got'em good. You know, instinct or whatever." The agent waved at the medical tray beside her, "Apparently I stuck'em with some bandage scissors."

"So just test the DNA."

"Tucker's barred us from the lab. Says we need a warrant to invade the premises and use his equipment." Fisher took a long drag of her cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling, "I put in for the warrants, obviously, but who knows how long it's gonna take with the Costa Ricans blacking out our feeds."

Claire's mouth tightened, "You know Tucker is behind this. First, the Compys and now, a hitman? Our silence is being mistaken for weakness, Fisher. We need to send a message _." Before it's_ my _turn_. She didn't voice the unspoken fear.

"Couldn't agree more." The woman raised an eyebrow, "I'm cleared to leave the clinic this afternoon. As soon as I'm out, I'm handing Tucker my inspection findings, telling him I'm shutting the place down."

"Perfect." Claire clapped her palms together, "I'll let Owen know and we can begin overseeing the evacuation process."

Fisher nodded, "I've already notified the Costa Ricans and asked them to send us some ferries. But Grady pretty much begged me to give you and Stanley a space on my boat, so…"

The red-head smiled coldly, "Thank you, but we'll only need a place for Stan."

"Oh? How come?"

"I think we both agree that Isla Nublar isn't the healthiest place to raise a child."

"No," Jolene tapped the butt of her depleted smoke stick onto the floor, "I meant, why aren't you leaving? Grady's right to worry, Claire. Tucker's got you marked for something big, and you aren't talking."

Claire's ice-queen smile remained fixed as she rose to stand, "I have no idea what you mean. But thank you for your concern. If you need me, I'll be at HQ commencing the evacuation."

Fisher sighed, then flopped onto her pillow once more, "Have it your way, then. I'll keep my security tight, but I'd like to assign you some protection. Things could get hairy."

"I have a Glock in my purse I know how to use." Claire checked her watch, "But I'm sure Owen would appreciate the extra security for Stanley."

"Oh yeah. Heard Randall showed up last night." Fisher let out a throat laugh, "Who's he think he is; the new sheriff in town?"

"I'm late for a meet with Lowery." Claire shouldered her bag, "Good to see you're alright. Call me if you need me." She headed for the door.

"You forgot your brownies!" Fisher called after her, waving a hand at the Tupperware container on her bedside desk.

"Gluten-free muffins." Claire reminded her staunchly as she left the room.

She told herself the hateful looks she received from Tucker (and Randall, though his sneer was obstructed by his swollen jaw) were unimportant. They might've been.

But they were unnerving, all the same.

* * *

When Stanley Simmons woke up, bleary-eyed and rocking a terrific case of bed-hair, he waited for the bucket of cold water. Or the clash of cymbals. Some sort of cruel and unusual wake-up call to justify the fact that his watch read 11:45 AM and Owen had not yet dragged him out of bed.

A quick trip to the bathroom and a rigorous face-wash later, and Stan had to accept that this was no dream. The cabin was quiet save for the chirping of Isla Nublar's birdlife. Still clad in a t-shirt and boxers, Stan stumbled over and pressed his ear to the bedroom door.

More silence greeted him.

He shrugged, told himself that it was none of his business, and had a go at the new box of cereal Claire had left him on the counter…

Along with a note, explaining she would be out for the majority of the day and that she had her spare cell phone along should an emergency arise.

The note was probably for Owen.

Dumping his bowl in the sink and splashing a second helping of cold water into his eyes, Stan headed for his clothes.

He was just pulling on his jeans when Owen's cell phone – lying on the kitchen counter where he always left the damn thing – began to peal.

Stan rolled his eyes, "Journey? What, did he buy that tune in a ringtone museum?"

He tugged on his shoes and looked up as Barry sounded on the voicemail.

"Owen, it's me. I talked to Doctor Shriver this morning. He says Blue needs fresh bandages and more painkillers and tranquilizers. I would bring them over myself, but things are crazy. I don't know if you heard about Fisher."

Stan froze mid-balance as he laced up one shoe.

"As soon as you get this message, go to the clinic. Maria left the package in the lobby. Drop it off at the paddock and get back as soon as you can."

Chewing at his cheek, Stan realized he would have to brave the proverbial lion's den if Blue was to get her treatment in time. Sure, the raptor had tried to kill him – repeatedly. But she had also saved Claire's life, and her current injury was largely due to him.

Rolling his eyes, Stan pounded on the bedroom door.

"Owen!"

Nothing.

After several minutes of fruitless knocking, Stan tried the handle and was surprised to find the door creaking open in compliance.

Stan approached the massive figure sprawled across the king-size mattress. At least the man was wearing something resembling clothing. He inched cautiously closer, stopping just out of arm's reach.

"Owen." He tried. " _Owen_! Wakey, wakey."

The man was out cold.

"Owen, come on. _OWEN_!"

Feeling an irrational fear begin pounding in his chest (and ignoring the deep-set reason behind it), Stanley gingerly stretched out a hand and shook Owen's broad shoulder.

"Owen, wake up!" He shook harder, and then attempted poking at the man's ribcage, " _Dad_!"

The dread grew like a weed. Stan remembered the last time he'd felt this way, and, throwing all caution to wind, snatched up Owen's wrist and felt for a pulse.

Fortunately, the steady thumping under his fingertips managed to reassure Stan that his father was not, in fact, dead. Blowing out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Stan examined the conundrum before him. Owen was all but comatose – likely an after-effect of the past few days' action – and Blue was in pain.

To his credit, Stan was honestly taking the altruistic road when he slapped a post-it on Owen's door. He had no way of knowing when the man would waken, and it was imperative that Blue receive her medical package as soon as possible. He could call Claire and ask her to do it, but it sounded like the woman had enough on her plate. And it just so happened Stan's schedule had been cleared.

In fact, Owen had personally handed in his son's resignation to Randall with his fist…and boot.

 _Wait, am I grounded?_ Stan shut the cabin door behind him, _No, His Royal Majesty was too busy beating the crap out of Randall to bring that up. Besides, the paddock's not exactly off the beaten trail._

That much was true. While on the far side of the island, the paddock Barry and Owen had chosen was still part of the original Jurassic World circuit and well within the confines of the wall.

Stan set off, ambling down the crumbling pavement of the old park boulevard. After one too many stares from the bustling personnel, he yanked up his hood and adopted a scowl. Remembering Owen's less-than-veiled warning about two _persona-non-grata_ , Stan kept a low profile. He ducked his head as the truck ferrying the wall crew kicked up a cloud of dust beside him.

Arriving at the clinic, Stan narrowed his eyes at the team of black-clad feds swarming the area. He tucked his hands into his pockets and approached the guard at the doors.

The man looked down his straight, long nose at the boy. Stan cleared his throat.

"Here to pick up a medical package for Doctor Shriver." He matched the deadpan expression on the agent's face with one of his own.

"Wait." The man informed him curtly, then muttered into his earpiece. Stan arched onto his tiptoes in an effort to look over his massive shoulder. He barely caught a glimpse of the chaos in the hallway when a mousy nurse appeared with the goods.

Deciding (wisely) against commandeering another vehicle, Stan bolstered his grip on the hefty bag and set off on foot. It was about a half-hour trek, but the path was paved, albeit slightly overgrown. Birds twittered and cicadas chirped in the long grass as it waved in the tropical breeze. A freshness hung in the air, lingering from the previous night's storm. It made the mud and mosquitos a little more tolerable.

The paddock gate was a fortress of steel, shrouded in vines that had flourished in the year since the park had been abandoned. Stan squinted in the midday sun, running a finger across the enclosure's specs sheet. It had previously housed triceratops, but since all the surviving herbivores had been moved as far from the wall as possible, the paddock was now derelict.

Stan set down his burden and pressed the intercom.

After a moment, a voice crackled, "What do you want?"

"You the dino vet?" Stan glanced around him as he spoke, doing his best to look bored and unaffected should he be on camera.

"What do you want?"

"Got a special delivery for a Doctor Shriver. That you?"

Silence. Then, "Wait there."

Stan waited. Not as though he had a freaking choice. He kicked his scuffed converse in the dirt and tried not to think about what could be lurking in the brush.

He was leaning against the door when it buzzed open, nearly tripping him the process. Doctor Shriver was a portly man with a frazzled countenance and a bald spot. He took the package from Stan without so much as a 'thank you' and moved to shut the door.

"Hey, wait!" Stan wedged his foot in.

"I hope you're not expecting a tip, young man!"

"I just want to see Blue. How is she doing?"

"She's heavily sedated and nursing a broken limb, that's how she's doing. Seeing her will do absolutely no good whatsoever. Now if you'll excuse me!" The final words rang in the slam of the gate.

"Asshat!" Stan made sure to yell the slur. He flipped the shrouded paddock – and Doctor Shirver – the bird with both hands before turning on his heel. Guilt riddled with anger brewed in Stan like a storm cloud, and he took a seat on a fallen tree trunk in an attempt to calm himself down.

As he sat there, fists digging into the rotting wood, Stan became aware of a presence standing behind him. For a minute, he froze, fearing that Blue's pack had finally caught up to him.

Stan was relieved – yet considerably annoyed at having been scared shitless – when Tucker eased himself to sit beside the young man.

"I love it out here." Tucker's brow was shiny with its usual coating of sweat. His cream-colored suit sported several grass stains that suggested he had intentionally snuck up on Stan. This little detail only served to further anger Stanley.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"I thought you were a little old for Stranger Danger, Stanley."

"You aren't strange. You're _psychotic_. Now beat it."

To Stan's irritation, Tucker gave a chuckle, "Don't worry, Stan." He patted the young man's knee, "What Daddy doesn't know won't hurt him."

Stan shot up, jerking out of Tucker's reach, "You touch me again, he's gonna know alright!"

"Relax." Tucker held up a palm, face warped in disgust "I didn't come out here to _molest_ you, if that's what you're implying."

"Just _harass_ me, is that it?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"And _I_ need _you_ to leave me alone."

Tucker rested an elbow on one crossed knee and tapped his forehead, "You know, call me crazy, but…I could've sworn I heard you asking whoever is inside that paddock if you could see _Blue_."

Stan paused mid-turn. His jaw clenched and he fought to control the wild beat his heart was suddenly dancing to. "You heard wrong."

"Oh I don't think I did. In fact," Tucker rose to his feet laboriously, "I think your daddy is hiding his little pet in there. And the thing is, I have to ask myself; what if information like that found its way into the wrong hands?"

When Stan turned, it was to cast Tucker a thoroughly unimpressed expression, "I wouldn't quit your day job, Sherlock."

"Don't misunderstand me. Personally, I have nothing against Blue. She's an impressive animal, and a valuable InGen asset. I'd never hurt a scale on her head, but…" Tucker raised his eyebrows at the ground, "…there are a lot of people on this island who lost friends because of her. Take my security team, for instance. One of my best guys watched his brother's throat torn out by Blue's new raptor pack a month ago. That kind of shit does stuff to a man, Stanley. It changes him. Yep, I reckon they'd storm this place with rocket launchers and a battering ram if they found out Blue was hiding here."

"You know, as fascinating as it is listening to your monologue," Stan snapped, "I was serious when I said I'm not meant to be talking with you. It'd hurt my rep. And, probably, the back of my head. So if you're finished…"

"How much danger do you think your _rep_ would be in if Owen's precious little raptor got killed because of _you_?" Tucker's tone went ugly, matching the snarl on his face, "Now I have a very selective memory, Stanley. I could conveniently forget this whole thing ever happened. And in return, you could do me a solid."

Stan grit his teeth, wishing with all his might that he could throw a punch like Owen. He was backed into a corner, and he knew it.

"Let's just pretend for a second that I _hypothetically_ accept your generous offer. What's the solid?"

"Oh, it's a stinch, really." Tucker rubbed his sweaty palms together, "I just need you to find out exactly _who_ Claire Dearing spoke to and where she was on the night my office was raided."

"If you think I'm going to enable your obsession with _stalking_ her…"

"I guess you didn't hear there was an attempt on Agent Fisher's life last night. Luckily, she fought them off, but word on the street says Dearing is next on the hit list. Someone is trying to silence her, someone who might be the _real_ enemy in this picture. You get me?"

Stan's mind raced. He knew that Owen and Claire had gone out that night and pawned him off to Barry. He was, however, flummoxed by the notion that they could actually be responsible for the break-in. Claire was here with an all-access pass courtesy of Masrani Corps. She didn't need to sneak around. In Stan's mind, that would be _far_ beneath Claire Dearing…although, he wouldn't put it past Owen.

"So let me get this straight." He eyed Tucker stonily, "I get you Claire's alibi, and you leave Blue alone."

"That's the deal."

"And you back off of Claire, as well."

"Of course. If she's innocent."

"The only thing Claire's guilty of is having _you_ for a colleague."

Tucker chuckled again, but this time it was sinister, "Oh, you are _so_ much like your father."

"If I was like Owen," Stan smiled acidly, "I'd have knocked your teeth out by now. But while we're on the subject, he can't know I'm talking to you. How are we supposed to communicate?"

"Don't worry about that. Just find out what you can, and I'll contact you through a third party. The back of your head will remain unscathed."

Stan turned to leave, shuddering with revulsion. He just wanted to get as far away from the slime-ball as was humanly possible.

"You see how well we play ball together, Stanley?" Tucker called after him as he ploughed down the path, "This is what you'd call a win-win situation!"

* * *

 _ **You know what ELSE is a win-win situation? Me posting and you reviewing. That. - Tyler**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Over fifty follows! To celebrate said mark, I present my readers with a 7,000 word special. Some action, some character study, some Clowen...a patchwork quilt of Tyler for y'all. Something for everyone. So everyone can review ;). It's a no-brainer. - Ty**_

* * *

Stanley Simmons was a young man of skepticism. He'd never been the sort of baby who giggled when cooed over. In fact, most people who attempted peek-a-boo were met with a blank, unamused stare. Baby Stan had once even projectile-vomited into his Aunt Phyllis' mouth for daring to 'goochie-goochie-goo' at him.

His mother always said Stan was an old soul. It was a playful jibe she'd throw at him when he'd rant about the unredeemable behavior of his peers and, unfortunately, his elders. Stan viewed school as a necessary evil, something he had to endure to achieve independence. As he grew older, Stan only became more and more jaded by the dystopia of adulthood. They seemed as clueless as children, and more miserable for it.

Stan hoarded knowledge, hungered for it. But the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' was aptly coined. Whenever Stan had poked his head out of the crowd to question something, he'd been shot down. His teachers grew to loathe him, and he spent many hours on the bench outside the principal's office while his mother took the flak.

But Corine had always nurtured Stan's inquiring mind. They'd pass long afternoons debating in the chipped chairs on their lawn. And his mother, with her warmth and her quiet wisdom, would succeed where all others had failed. Stan's walls would crumble, his insecurities would tumble into the sunshine, and Corine would gently help each one to its feet.

When his grandfather had beaten him, Stan had blamed himself. He had a razor-sharp tongue which often drove his elders to distraction. But the second time, and the third time – those hadn't been his fault. Stan was certain of it. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the scars remained. When Corine put two and two together, she hadn't said a word. The next day, he'd heard her on the phone to his grandmother telling her curtly that they were moving out of state. The one smidgeon of faith Stan still held in adults was snuffed out like a candle. Furious with his mother for not raining judgement down on his abusers, Stan retreated deep inside himself.

He never came back out. Not even when Corine's Mercedes was totaled by a pick-up truck and she was crushed inside. Stan buried that agony alongside all the rest and shut the doors to his internal fortress.

Yes, Stanley Simmons was a young man of skepticism. Which is why he found the notion of Tucker actually keeping his end of their bargain highly improbable. On the other hand, Stan knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he told Owen what Tucker had threatened to do, there would be all-out war. And Stan was pretty sure that Blue, at least, would die in the crossfire.

While hardly the Raptor's biggest fan, Stan figured he owed her a little more than that.

So engrossed was he in pondering the problem that Stan failed to hear the raised voices coming from inside the cabin until his (Owen's) key turned in the lock.

Claire and Owen were having what appeared to be a stand-off in the middle of the cabin. Owen's hands were on his hips and Claire's were sheathed across her chest. When the latter turned wide eyes of warning on Stan, he struggled for an out.

"Oh, look, Claire!" Too late. Owen had already started in, and had decided to lead with sarcasm, "It's your fellow note-leaver! Hey, why don't you come over here, Stanley?" Here the man waved a crumpled post-it alongside some cream-colored stationary, "You two could exchange ideas, maybe give each other some tips!"

"Oh, leave him alone!" Claire snapped, "It's _me_ you're mad at!"

"I'm not mad! I mean, I _was_ mad about an hour ago when I woke up to the world's worst headache and an empty house." Owen batted a hand in mock dismissal, "But _then_ , after freaking out about my girlfriend and son bein' AWOL on a dinosaur-infested island, I found these _notes_ telling me what I already knew – that they were gone. So it's all good! Oh and by the way," Owen tossed Stan's crumpled post-it at his head, "might wanna work on your handwriting, Mr. Straight-A's. It _sucks_!"

Stan had never looked so openly offended, "I was in a _hurry_!"

"Yeah, I noticed. Actually, I _didn't_ notice, because I was _roofied_!"

"For the last time," Claire threw up her hands, "they were prescribed painkillers! You needed to rest, Owen."

"And what happened while I was choking on Snow White's apple? Fisher was almost killed, Tucker and Randall are running wild, and _you're_ tryin' to snowball an evacuation!"

"We're evacuating?" Stan frowned, "But, what about…"

"And don't even get me started on _you_!" Owen interrupted him with a stab of his finger, "Just 'cause I didn't rake you over the coals last night doesn't mean you get to treat this place like a goddamn hotel, little boy!"

"You want to know where I was?" Stan's feet thudded heavily to the counter where he snatched up his father's cell phone, "Why don't you check your freaking voice mail, Owen?"

"What?"

Before anyone had seen him move, Stan had Barry's message crackling over speaker-phone. The youth arched his brows purposefully at Owen.

"I tried to wake you up," He stated flatly, "but, as you can guess, that didn't go so well."

"Wait." Owen's eyes darted to Claire, and hers to him in unison, "Did you…?"

"Blue got her package." Stanley declared, "Courtesy of Mr. Straight-A's. You're forgiven."

"I didn't apologize."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"Okay, we don't have time for this!" Claire headed for the door, "I spent the _whole_ morning on the line with the Costa Ricans arranging for the ferries. ETA on the boats is forty-eight hours, which means we have until then to sort things out."

"Sort _Tucker_ out, you mean." Owen slung his rifle over the shoulder of his vest, "If Fisher thinks that man's just gonna bend over and take it while she…"

"Thank you, Owen!" She interrupted a little too loudly, conscious of Stan, "But I think the federal agents can handle _one_ little troll under their bridge."

"Bet that's what _Fisher_ thought."

"And she's still here. So if you'll excuse me, I have to oversee the HQ shut-down."

"Fine. Be careful."

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Gotta make sure the animals are handled right. The herbivores can be released, but the raptor hatchlings can't survive on their own yet."

"I've already arranged it with Masrani Corps." Claire's fingers gripped the door handle, "They've sent a military vessel to take the hatchlings to a secure facility off-shore until a decision can be made regarding the continuation of the project."

"Well, what happens to the hatchlings if they decide to scrap it?"

"Most of the board members are in favor of returning the raptors to Isla Nublar as soon as they reach maturity. What are you going to do about Blue?"

"I dunno yet. The doc said her leg would heal on its own. I'll think of something."

"Wait!" Stan finally managed to get a word in edgewise, "Claire, what can I do? Point me someplace. I want to help."

If she and Owen stared at the teenager as though he'd grown three heads…well, Stan deserved it.

He huffed impatiently.

"Right, um…" Claire shut her eyes briefly, racking her brain, "I guess I could use an extra pair of hands in the control room. You any good with bubble wrap?"

"Not really. But I have a great set of lungs. Think of me as a human megaphone."

"That ain't no shocker." Owen muttered, "Already got front-row seats to _that_ show." He ducked outside, "Just stay out of trouble!"

Claire's mouth tightened, "Your condescending attitude is _really_ starting to…"

"I was talking to Stanley!" He yelled over the rattle of his bike engine, "But if the shoe fits, wear it!"

* * *

Headquarters was, as predicted, in complete anarchy. Those not engaged in frantic phone calls or having a panic attack at their control console were butting heads over delegating duties.

Claire brought the answer to that question on the clicking of her heels. She swept determined eyes across the chaos before raising her voice.

"Alright! Listen up, everybody!"

Someone was screaming hysterically down the phone. Another batch of employees were having a shouting match over who the coffee machine belonged to.

"I need everyone to just calm down and return to their stations…" Claire threw up her hands as her words fell on deaf ears, "It's like talking to a wall!"

And then Stan, who'd been idling until that point, hollered a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush – and probably give his father a nasty shock.

Claire's jaw slackened. The control room employees seemed as stunned as she was.

Stan shrugged at her, "You wanted their attention."

"I don't think it's _me_ they're looking at."

"Claire!" Lowery poked his head out from his desk, "Would you get over here? The paddocks are offline!"

"What?" She hastened to his side, "What do you mean, offline?"

"We've been trying to merge some of the herbivores to prep them for release, but the conjoining paddock doors won't open. Nothing is responding – nothing!" Lowery's clothing was rumpled and his glasses askew. He tugged at his hair as Claire leaned over him.

"I don't believe this." She tapped at his screen, attempting several commands, "How many systems have we tried?"

"All of them! The main power source is still running, obviously, but the gates won't open. The animals are trapped inside!"

"He knows we can't leave them in there. They'd starve." Claire whispered as realization dawned on her. Tucker's sabotage knew no bounds – nor did his cruelty.

"Claire, any ideas?" Lowery was sweating buckets, "'Cause once the boats are docked, you can kiss goodbye to every single one of these people!"

"I can't let him get away with this." She breathed to herself, before addressing her friend, "Have we tried manual override?"

"That would mean going down there in person," Lowery waved a hand at the mayhem before them, "Does it look like you'd get any volunteers right now? They know what's out there, Claire!"

She balled her fist in contempt, "Then I'll go myself!"

"That's suicide…hey, hands off, kid!" Lowery snapped at Stan, who had picked up one of his shiny new dinosaur figurines, "Those things cost more than you're worth on the organ market!"

"We don't have a choice." Claire was already pulling out her cell phone, "Keep trying the paddocks, and watch the cameras! If anything happens to me, you'll know my last location."

"That's not gonna keep Owen from pounding me!" Lowery protested, "Is that who you're calling, by the way?"

"Ugh, why do you _never_ pick up?" Claire glared at her phone, "Okay, Stanley? I need a favor."

"Oh what the hell, I'm already on the Naughty List. What is it?" His brows rose under his dark bangs.

"I need you to take _this_ ," Claire handed him her cell phone, "and keep trying to get in touch with Owen. When you reach him, tell him I need his help with the paddocks. Can you do that for me?"

"I'd rather come with you."

"I know, but it's better for everyone if you hold down the fort here." She took his hand, squeezed it, and looked into his eyes, "I'm counting on you, Stanley."

Stan tensed visibly at the physical contact, pulling away as though burned.

"Fine." He mumbled, turning hastily away from Claire's earnest gaze.

"Thank you!" She darted out of the control room, her feet flying in time with the hem of her jacket.

Stan watched her go, face flushed, before he pulled up Claire's phone log. Swiping his thumb across the screen, Stan scrolled through her history and was relieved to find her phones were synced. Accessing the data from her now-destroyed cell phone was easier than taking candy from a baby.

It felt just as vile, too. But Stan was doing it for Blue, he reminded himself. And Claire was innocent, anyway. He was sure of it.

After making a few disturbing finds which Stan chalked up to coincidence, a sudden burst of inspiration struck him. His blue eyes leapt up to the bearded man hunched over his computer.

"Hey, Lowery. Hypothetical question for you."

"Look, Junior, I didn't sign up for babysitting, alright?" Lowery's fingers flew as he talked, "Why don't you just keep trying to call your dad, okay? Grown-ups are a little busy today."

"You know," Stan traced a finger across the ridges of a stegosaurus figurine, "these are a class act. Collectors?"

"Vintage." Lowery snarled, pausing in his work to snatch the item away, "Very, very expensive. No touchy."

"This whole system is wired through one core network, right?" Stan waved a finger absently.

"Yeah. So?"

"So, anyone with all-level access to that network can control pretty much anything they want to here, then."

Lowery closed his eyes with a martyred growl, "Where you going with this, kid?"

"Nowhere." Stan pinned him with a cold look. The peal of Claire's cell phone interrupted the uncomfortable conversation. No one looked more relieved than Lowery.

"Hello?"

"Stan?" Owen sounded out of breath, "Why do you have Claire's phone?"

"You're probably not going to like the answer to that." Stan threw out the disclaimer, before painting a general picture of the situation for his father. The silence that followed suggestion Owen was deep in thought.

"Alright, I'm on my over to her. Listen, I need you to go see Fisher for me." When Owen spoke again, his tone was crisp and calm, "Tell her what's happened and ask her to come up with some excuse to keep Tucker and his people busy."

"You want me to tell her to break out the Sambuca shots?" Stan muttered, sarcasm hiding the uncertainty he felt.

"Just pass her that message. Fisher will handle it." Owen stated, "Then head back to the cabin and pack your stuff. I worked out a ride for you with the feds. They're taking you on their boat tonight."

"What? You just went and planned all this, without even bothering to _ask_ me?" Stan was stunned – and angry. And more than a little confused.

"Are you kidding me? You've been bitching about getting off this rock since the minute you touched down!" Owen sounded like his feelings echoed his son's.

"Yeah, well, that was before…I mean…" Stan moved a ways off from Lowery as the man rolled his eyes at him, "I don't wanna leave until I know that Blue is…"

"Blue will be _fine_!" His father attempted to reassure him firmly. They both knew that Blue was not Stan's only (or most pressing) concern. "That's not your problem. The only thing you have to worry about is getting on that boat when it puts out to sea. Do you understand me?"

"No! No, I do _not_ understand you, Owen. In fact, I think you're _nuts_!"

"Eh, you're probably right. But, unfortunately for you, this nut-job's your old man. So do as you're told and get on the boat. Please." Owen added the last word in an exaggeratedly polite tone before hanging up the phone.

 _That's it!_ Stan shoved the phone into his jeans pocket. ' _I need you to find out where Claire was that night, Stanley.' 'I need you to stay here and hold down the fort, Stanley.' 'I need you to call your dad, Stanley.' 'I need you to call Fisher, Stanley.' 'I need you to get on the boat, Stanley.' Goddamn it, I can't please everyone!_

He decided to take his investigation to one of the abandoned computer stations in the corner of the room. Bringing up the network, Stan worked silently in the midst of chaos, unnoticed by the frantic workers around him. Hunting down a certain set of figurines, he sucked in a breath at the price tag and accessed the seller's online store.

Clicking on the feedback button, Stan tracked down the last purchaser. The buyer, a _Cadtn_ , had had the figurines flown special delivery to the Costa Rican docklands.

Stan stole a glance at Lowery from across the room.

 _Busted_.

* * *

Claire hastily pulled the handbrake on the golf cart she'd commandeered (the lackey had been hesitant to lend it to her after the last one she'd totaled, but a swift reminder that she'd likely be handling personnel redistribution after the evacuation took care of it). Her shoes hit the grass as she hurried to the first gate she'd reached – the Apatosaurus enclosure. It was by far the largest paddock, and had a second entrance at its rear which spilled onto the grassy plains of the east side of the island.

Claire had calculated that the Apatosaurus enclosure was best-suited for a smooth migration of all remaining herbivores. Which is why she was less than surprised to find the manual control box hanging off its hinge with a mesh of slashed wires. Fury filled her at the idea of Tucker having been one step ahead. It was unusual that a _human_ got the jump on Claire Dearing.

Hands on her hips, Claire stared the wall down determinedly. The control panel might be fried, but there was still an internal lever on the other side of the gate. If she could somehow make it over, she could still pull this off.

"Well, I know _that_ look."

Claire had been so engrossed in thought that she had missed the sputter of the bike engine. She smiled as Owen kicked down his side-stand.

"Whatever you're starin' at is going down." He swung off his trusty motorcycle and strode to join her, "So what's the target?"

"Tucker's destroyed the manual access panel. I need to get inside somehow and trigger the other lever."

Owen squinted at the formidable wall before them, "I'm guessing you don't have some rope and a pick-axe in that oversized handbag of yours, huh?"

She leveled a sharp glance at him, "If you're not going to help…"

"There's no reason for me to be here. Yeah, I got the memo." He sighed, scraping a hand across his jaw before he tugged his rifle off of his shoulder, "Hold this."

Claire took the weapon, watching with a bemused expression as her boyfriend pulled off his brown leather vest.

"And this. Oh," Owen bent down, unstrapped a sheathed knife from his calf and handed it to Claire, "better take this, too."

She accepted the offerings with a crinkle of her freckled nose, "Please don't tell me you're going to _free-climb_ up a twenty foot wall."

"You got a better idea?" Owen was already at the base, locating footholds in the crisscrossing steel beams bracing the gate.

"Actually, yes! We could go back to base and get that rope you were talking about!" Claire shielded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her palm as she watched him.

"And risk running into Tucker or his goons?" He grunted between breaths, shifting his weight to his feet as his hands found a groove, "Thought you were the _smart_ one."

"Will you _please_ stop talking and focus on _not_ plummeting to your death?" She couldn't keep the anxiety out of her voice. Owen had cleared ten feet and was inching his way along a thread-like crevice to reach another grip.

"That's _real_ nice coming from you," Owen's voice was strained, "Miss Chatterbox the Second!"

Claire raised her eyebrows at the insult, "The _second_? Who's the first?"

"Your mother."

"I changed my mind. I hope you fall and die."

"Tough luck, sweetheart." Owen's biceps flexed beneath his sweat-soaked shirt as he hauled himself atop the gate's massive doors, "Veni, vidi, vici! I came," He disappeared over the other side, voice traveling downwards, "I saw…"

Claire took a few steps back from the gates, mouth tight with worry that melted as they heaved and began to slide open.

"I kicked this motherfucker's ass." Owen stood on the threshold the parting gates revealed, a broad grin on his tired, sweaty face.

"You're such a boy scout." She tried to smother her admiration in a teasing jab. "Here." She handed him his personal effects.

"You know you love it. So," Owen readjusted his appearance and glanced around the lush, rolling green around them, "what now, boss?"

"Lowery will have seen the doors open. He'll contact the caretakers standing by at the other paddocks to prep for relocation."

"Uh huh. And how exactly do you plan on getting five different species of herbivores from there to here?" Owen paused in re-attaching his ankle knife, "Oh no." He caught the look in Claire's eye, "Don't even _think_ about it."

She smiled widely, triumphantly, "Time to get back in the saddle, Dino Whisperer."

* * *

Jolene Fisher looked up from the tablet an agent was shoving in her face to eye the livid man across from her. "What _now_?"

"You think this is a goddamn game?" Tucker spat. He was accompanied by a small crowd of personal security who more closely resembled hired thugs, "You have no idea what's at stake if you shut this place down!"

"I know what's at stake if we _fail_ to shut it down, Mr. Tucker." Fisher waved her agent away and turned to face the outraged InGen official, "You employ over three hundred people on this island. Their safety is my primary concern, not your shareholders and _certainly_ not your reputation."

"What about the animals?" Tucker was so red he was bordering on purple. A vein throbbed in his forehead. "The predators will slaughter the herbivores if they don't die of starvation first. Doesn't that mean anything to you, Miss Fisher?"

"I've made arrangements for their care, Mr. Tucker. In the meantime, may I advise you to attend to your staff? I'm sure you'll want to oversee the evacuation process personally." Fisher adjusted her crutches, moved to walk, and fell. Tucker's arm swept out, catching the agent in the solar plexus and halting her descent.

"I'd watch your step if I were you, Miss Fisher." His breath smelt of gin and was rank and hot in her ear, "A lot can go wrong in forty-eight hours."

Tucker righted her footing, and Fisher yanked her arm from his grip.

"It's _Agent_ Fisher."

Their verbal pissing contest was interrupted by none other than Stanley Simmons. The youth strolled in casually, giving the federal agent blocking his path an absent wave.

"Here to see Agent Fisher. You're not gonna frisk me, are you? 'Cause that would just be weird…"

"Let him through." Jolene rolled her eyes. She was surprised when Tucker greeted the son of his arch rival with an oily smile.

"Stanley! Good to see a friendly face at a time like this." He stepped forward, clapping Stan on the shoulders, "Can I interest you in a drink? I have a _fantastic_ bottle of bourbon in my office."

Stan stiffened under Tucker's slimy palm, wanting nothing more than to shrug it off his shoulders. He hadn't counted on the man being present, and panicked briefly at having no way to privately communicate Owen's message to Fisher. Flustered and anxious to fulfill his role on all sides, Stan came up with a makeshift – albeit rather foolhardy – course of action.

"You know what? I could use an old-fashioned right about now. There's, like, _way_ too much estrogen around here, am I right?" Stan flashed a sullen look at Jolene, who squinted suspiciously.

"Hit the nail on the head, kid. Come on." Tucker led him out of the conference room where Fisher's people had set up camp and around the corner. He slammed his office door shut behind them and flicked the blinds closed.

"I have to say I'm surprised." Tucker confessed smarmily as he poured two glasses of whiskey, "I thought you'd run straight to your daddy after our little conversation this morning."

"Well, you thought wrong. Turns out you're wrong about a lot of things. I'd say _I'm_ surprised, but…" Stan accepted the cup from Tucker, "I'd be lying."

"You're a mouthy little runt." The smirk vanished from the man's face. He perched on the edge of his desk and eyed Stan disdainfully, "You'd better have some information for me. Time's a-ticking."

"So I checked out Claire's phone." Stan sipped his ice-cold whiskey and winced, "There were a few texts around the time of the incident. Mainly boring business jargon with that Lowery dude. Nothing incriminating."

"You'd better have a little more than that, Grady Junior!" Tucker slammed his glass onto the desk. Whiskey sloshed in droplets onto the oak finish. "I'm not in the mood for games!"

"I said there was nothing that implicated _Claire_!" Stan snapped, "Lowery, on the other hand, just treated himself to a brand new set of vintage dinosaur figurines. I looked them up. Turns out their price-tag's a little above the man's paygrade."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"The figurines were a present. Someone bought them for him and had them shipped here, express delivery. Probably _illegal_ delivery, too, if you count the fact that the blockade was up." Stan took another gulp of his whiskey. It warmed his gut and gave him courage, "I tracked down the buyer. Their username was really random; _Cadnt_ ."

Tucker paused mid-sip, "Lowery."

"I'm just telling you what I found. It's a theory – probably a stupid one."

"On the contrary," Tucker's eyes were wild and giddy, "I think you've just uncovered a major piece of this puzzle, Grady Junior."

"Don't call me that!" Stan's cheeks burned. He wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or the anger. Probably a little of both.

"I probably shouldn't, should I?" The suit-clad man relieved Stan of his half-full glass and topped it up again, "Considering what I know about that man. It's disgusting, if you ask me."

" _What_ is?"

"I really have to stop drinking." Tucker eyed his glass critically, "The darndest things slip out of my mouth when I've had a few."

"Whatever." Stan knew when he was being baited, and he'd had enough of being manipulated by Tucker. Leaving his full glass on the table, the boy turned to leave, "So I guess we're square now."

"Of course. Although…" Tucker let the word slice through the air like a knife, "it just doesn't seem fair for me to hold out on you after you've been so…forthcoming with _me_. You have a right to know, Stanley."

He grit his teeth and kept his back turned to the man, "Know _what_?"

Tucker released a heavy sigh, "That Owen Grady's not your real father."

The words hung like Damocles' sword, dangling dangerously over Stanley's head. He swallowed thickly, a weight settling in his gut.

"Where did you come up with _that_ one?"

"I didn't. The _lab_ did." Tucker sounded sympathetic. It was sickening. "You see, Phil Cummings came to me after Grady marked his territory all over you. The man was worried, so he asked me to run some tests."

"And you agreed." Stan faced Tucker now, his jaw clenched furiously.

"It was the moral thing to do. Cummings brought some DNA samples from both of you to run for a match. When it came up negative, well," Tucker shrugged his shoulders, "I got to thinking, Stanley."

Stan said nothing. He was too petrified, too enraged to open his mouth. To validate the accusation.

It wasn't true. It _couldn't_ be true.

He didn't _want_ it to be true.

"Turns out Owen Grady's family ranch is suffering since his father died." Tucker continued, "He's been after a loan to patch it up, but the bank's refused on account of his…let's just say _colorful_ credit history. A tidy little nest egg like yours would be more than enough incentive for a scumbag like Grady to…"

"Owen's not a scumbag." Stan lost his hard-won silence, fists clenching so tightly they shook, "He's three times the man you'll ever be, you lying sack of shit."

"Is he?" Tucker raised his eyebrows, "Am I, Stanley? Your mother dated Owen for one week before she left. Who's to say she didn't just put his name on the birth certificate to avoid the embarrassment of not knowing who the father was?"

Stan picked up his whiskey glass and hurled it at the wall behind Tucker. It shattered, staining the whitewashed plaster and scattering across the floor.

Tucker raised his hands, "I know you're angry, Stanley." He watched the teenager's heaving chest and flared nostrils cautiously, "But unlike Grady, I'm _not_ lying to you. I have no reason to. What I _do_ have is the proof." Reaching slowly for the draw of his desk, he produced a cream-colored envelope and extended it, "These are the results of the DNA test. Take it."

Stan eyed the envelope as though it were a poisonous serpent.

"It's not true." He whispered through grit teeth.

"See for yourself." Tucker placed it on the chair between them, "I heard you're after legal emancipation. I know people who can help you, Stanley. I can get you what you want." He passed the young man silently, pausing in the doorway, "Owen Grady is a two-timing thief. He's already got Claire mixed up in all his shit; now he's after you. You owe him nothing, kid."

 _Just my life._ Stan felt a single tear roll down his cheek after the door clicked shut. He picked up the envelope, eyed it coldly for a full five minutes. Then he crumpled it in his balled fist.

He didn't _want_ it to be true.

Tucker mopped his brow with his stained silk handkerchief, allowing for a moment of victory. He knew that Stan had more on Claire than he was letting on, and Tucker had shaken the child's loyalty to its very foundation. It was only a matter of time before the boy came to him with everything he knew.

Jolene Fisher eyed him sharply from her stack of papers, "You know, I had you pinned for a douche bag, but dragging a kid into your power struggle chafes my ass even more than midnight assassination attempts."

He smoothed out a wrinkle in the lapel of his suit jacket, "Those painkillers they have you on must be truly phenomenal to double as hallucinogenics. Now if you'll excuse me." Tucker signaled to his brigands as he headed for the exit.

"What's your hurry, Mr. Tucker?"

Stan appeared in the doorway of his office, clutching the un-crumpled envelope in one fist and a bottle of bourbon in the other. A lopsided, sardonic smirk graced his face.

"Why don't you guys stick around? The party's just getting started!"

Tucker smothered a triumphant cackle in a surreptitious throat-clearing.

 _Gotcha_.

* * *

Several miles off, the ground shuddered beneath the heavy trudge of a stegosaurus herd. The great beasts ambled aimlessly out from the confines of their paddock, stopping to dip their heads and graze in the low-lying shrubbery.

A resounding roar caused them to scatter, dashing madly away from the disturbance. The rest of Isla Nublar's surviving herbivores were hot on their tails, each species fleeing the all-too familiar sound.

The four-wheel drive being guided by Claire was blasting a T-rex's fury on an overhead megaphone. On each flank of her vehicle were Barry and Owen astride their motorcycles.

It was like a prehistoric cattle drive.

"Crank it up!" Owen yelled at her before he and Barry broke rank to speed ahead. Claire hiked the volume, heart racing with exhilaration as she kept the wheel steady.

The men fanned out, skirting the margins of the stampeding dinosaurs and herding them along. One jittery Brachiosaurus swept its massive tail in Owen's path. Owen ducked his head and swerved his bike so close to the ground, his knee skidded along the grass. Claire winced as his jeans came up bloody, but was grateful it was the jeans and not his neck.

Barry gave a joyful whoop, soliciting a grin from Owen across the field. The two men expertly maneuvered their bikes across the uneven turf, cutting off attempts to break from the herd. Claire aided their efforts with well-timed guttural roars from her speaker.

Yes, it was crazy. They were colossal, prehistoric beasts. Not cows. But if the three of them felt just a little bit like cowboys at that moment in time…

Well, nobody was there to tell them different.

When the last of the dinosaurs were safely through the gates of the Apatosaurus paddock, Barry worked his magic on the mangled mess of wires. A little hot-wiring ensured the giant doors slid shut with a long, slow groan.

It was Owen's turn to let out a whoop. He pumped a fist into the air as he leaped off his bike before collapsing onto the grass in stitches of laughter.

Claire's cheeks hurt from the width of her smile as she allowed her boyfriend to tug her down beside him. Barry rested his palms on his knees and blew out huffs of breath.

"We did it! I can't believe it! We did it!" Claire felt giddy, ecstatic. She lay on her back, head resting atop Owen's brawny arm as she flashed white teeth at a blue sky.

"Pair of regular rustlers, we are." Owen gripped her biceps, rolling her astride him to press the flat of her belly against his own. His eyes grew earnest as he cupped Claire's face in his calloused palms, "I really wanted to add 'Mrs. Grady' to the end of that sentence."

Claire froze, eyes wide. The honest statement caught her off-guard and she found herself speechless. Terrified of misspeaking and shattering the otherwise perfect moment, Claire dipped her head and planted a passionate kiss she hoped would silence any further talk of marriage.

The sudden echo of gunshots effectively destroyed the moment. Claire and Owen broke apart as the faint roar of engines heralded approaching unfriendlies.

"We got company." Barry drew his weapon, "Must be Randall's gang. Judging by the sound of things, they aren't too happy!"

"We need to get out of here." Owen scrambled to his feet, Claire fast to follow. "Splitting up's our best hope of losing'em. Can you handle it?"

Barry was already revving up his bike, "Can _you_?"

Claire wrapped her arms around Owen's abs from her position on his bike saddle, "We'll lead them into the brush while you make a break for base. Once you get there, find Fisher. She'll keep Tucker's dogs off your back till things cool off enough for us to show our faces."

"What do I tell Stanley?"

"'Good job'." Owen offered.

They parted ways.

The chase was long and perilous. Owen and Claire wove a trail through the dense belly of Isla Nublar for hours before they finally lost their pursuers. Several times, a bullet came within a hairsbreadth distance of their legs, or arms, or faces. Once, the bike almost jackknifed after Owen had to pull a sudden move to dodge Randall and his posse.

But what their enemies possessed in firepower was negated by Owen and Claire's knowledge of the island. Between the pair of them, they were an unstoppable force, able to slip through cracks and under crannies that were unfamiliar to Randall and his men. By nightfall, they had lost them.

Claire sat beside the crackle of a strong blaze, warming her palms in the heat of the fire. A broken string of light-bulbs above her head wound its way around the familiar spot where it had all begun – it seemed a lifetime ago.

Owen tossed another stick into the campfire and opened a filthy cooler. He uncapped a beer and extended it towards her, "You want one?"

She took it with a smile, "I knew you had an ulterior motive for always wanting to come out here besides 'fixing the place up'." Claire gestured towards the derelict Sunrio bungalow behind her.

"No self-respecting handyman goes without an on-site stash." Owen winked at his girlfriend as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "Salud."

Claire clinked her bottle against his. Sparks flew like red-hot fireflies around them. The long, low moan of the herbivores echoed through the night air.

They drank their beers. A ponderous silence hung between them, broken eventually by Owen.

"What I said back there…" He rolled a fallen twig between his thumb and index finger, "I wasn't…I mean, you don't have to…"

"It's alright. I understand."

"Do you?" Owen's eyes met Claire's. His were raw and real and hers were guarded, "Because you coulda fooled me."

She gazed pointedly into the fire, "I thought we both made our position on marriage perfectly clear when it came up the last time…"

"Yeah. Only, they were totally opposite positions."

"You know how I feel about it, Owen. It's a just a piece of paper. It has no bearing whatsoever on the strength of a commitment."

"Just 'cause your sister got the raw end of the deal doesn't mean it has to happen to us."

"Well, an ounce of prevention's worth a pound of cure!"

"Oh, great. We're starting on the platitudes already. I'm gonna need more beer." Masking his hurt behind a sarcastic squint, Owen rose to his feet. A rustling in the trees made his pause.

"Did you hear that?" Claire whispered. She stood quickly, quietly, one hand gripping Owen's shoulder.

He reached for his rifle, which was propped beside the cooler. "When I say 'run', make a beeline for the cabin."

"It can't be the T-rex. We would've heard her coming a mile away."

Their terse exchange was abruptly cut short as Stanley stumbled into the clearing.

"Whoa." He muttered, hands rising in the air as he stared into the muzzle of Owen's rifle, "Don't shoot."

Fear and surprise quickly morphed into frustration. "Goddamn it, Stan!" Owen shucked the safety back on and lowered his weapon, "What the hell are you thinking, sneaking up on people in the dark? I could've blown your head off!"

"But you didn't." Stan wagged his index finger, swaying a little as he came into the firelight, "So it's all good. Oh, hey, Claire. Congrats on your big round-up. You guys got any food?"

Claire was speechless for the second time that day. She watched, eyes narrowed, as the teenager unsteadily seated himself cross-legged in the grass. The orange glow of the flames shone in his eyes – eyes that were looking more than a little glazed.

"What are you even _doing_ here?" Owen demanded, "You're supposed to be back at the cabin waiting for the boat!"

"Eeyeah. Turns out things kinda got ugly once Tucker found out about the herbivores. He put two and two together...I kinda had to beat it, fast." Stan's muddy, disheveled clothing attested to his story, "Man, I am _starving_. Seriously, you're not even, like, spit-roasting s'mores or something?"

A fresh night breeze sent a waft of air towards Claire and she covered her mouth in realization. She just hoped fiercely that Owen wouldn't notice what she had finally observed.

"Are you _drunk_?"

Well, the hope had been a little strained to begin with.

Stan batted a hand at Owen's incredulous squint, "Oh I'm sorry. Is it a _school_ night?"

"He's drunk." Owen clapped a hand to his forehead and turned to Claire, "Jesus Lord Almighty, my kid is fucking _wasted_."

"Language, language." Stan tutted.

"Alright, just…calm down." Claire patted her dumbfounded lover's shoulder, "Stanley…why exactly are you…um…"

"Inebriated?"

"Yes, um, inebriated. How did this happen?"

"You told me to call Owen. Owen told me to distract Tucker. Shit just went down from there." The boy peered into Owen's empty beer bottle, "Woah. My feet look _really_ rad from this angle."

Owen groaned into his palm, "Was there or was there not a line drawn at _Sambuca shots_ in our conversation?"

"We stuck to Bourbon. Bourbon. Bourbon is such a weird-sounding word, don't you guys think?" Stan was on his elbows, chin dropping onto his closed fists, "That Fisher lady can drink a grown man under the table, you know. Not that she drank _me_ under it. I was under the table at some point, though. Can't remember why. Oh yeah…that was _random_."

"Okay." Owen, having calmed down considerably upon understanding the situation, bent down to attend to his intoxicated son, "Enough babbling. Time to crash, kiddo." Tossing the beer bottle from Stan's fingers, he swooped the lanky teenager up in his arms. It said a great deal about Stan's level of _inebriation_ that he not only permitted the action, but his head lolled against Owen's shoulder.

"Whoa. Vertigo." Stan muttered. He kept up a steady stream of nonsensical rambling all the way into the half-collapsed cabin where Claire and Owen had set up camp for the night.

"Alright, here we go. Nice 'n easy." Owen maneuvered his son onto the damp, dusty sofa, pulling off his shoes and tossing a throw over him, "Sleep it off, huh?"

"Dad?"

Owen paused mid-step as he arranged the covers. Stan was blinking at him, looking surprisingly lucid all of a sudden.

"What if someone wanted you to do something you didn't wanna do…but you knew that if you didn't do it, something bad would happen?"

Owen considered his answer carefully. "Well," He responded after a moment, "I guess I would do what I thought was right, and deal with the consequences. That's pretty much the _only_ way to do things, I think."

Stan squinted, bleary-eyed, "How do you know what the right thing _is_?"

"Well, you trust your instincts. In my experience, if your gut says it's wrong, you should probably listen."

A pregnant silence filled the air before Owen ventured a sudden thought.

"Is someone making you do something, Stan? Something you don't want to do?"

The boy studied his hands and emitted a heavy sigh, "There's this guy in my school. Makes me do his homework for'im. M'not gonna do it anymore."

"You sure?"

" _Yeah_ , I'm sure! The guy's an asshole."

"Stanley, you know what I meant." Owen's tone turned sharp.

"An elephant is faithful, one hundred percent."

"Ugh, forget it. You're piss-drunk. Just go to sleep."

Stan did. He was out before his head hit the cushions –which meant he missed the worried father hovering over him in the moonlight. He also failed to notice the rough hand brushing the bangs out of his face, or the soft, feminine fingers tugging his blanket over his shoulders.

Sadly, the only thing that would stick with Stan from that evening was the hangover.

17


	14. Chapter 14

_**Here's another installment. Thanks to Katarina Aguilar, and also all the new reviewers. Makes my day reading your feedback. So this has been a wild ride. I regret to inform you all that In Loco Parentis will be wrapping up in the next chapter. It's a long one, don't worry. But our journey with these fine folk has come to an end. Unless, of course, you want a sequel? If so, let me know by means of a review. If there's enough interest, I might consider investing the time. - Ty**_

* * *

Celia Anderton was a woman of self-preservation. A Brown graduate with a Masters and a black belt in karate, her life choices revolved around whatever was best for Celia. In theory, it was a sound strategy. In practice, it tended to leave a body count in its wake. From the army vet whose heart she crushed when she broke off their engagement after he lost his leg, to the best friend she threw under the bus when Celia released some comprising photos of said friend on social media, ensuring her the position in Masrani Corps they'd been fighting over…

Yes, Celia Anderton was a woman of self-preservation. Which explained her lack of trepidation at Tucker showing up at her cabin door before the sun was even up. Whatever he had up his sleeve, Celia would find a way around it.

She knotted the cord of her bathrobe, swept her hair back from her face and sighed. When the door opened, it was a confident, frosty Celia who greeted InGen's biggest slimeball.

"Good morning, Celia. May I come in?" Tucker's usually impeccable appearance had been fraying since the arrival of Jolene Fisher, but Celia couldn't believe how rough the man was looking. His breath reeked of alcohol and his skin was a pallid, sweaty mess.

"It's six in the morning."

"I'm sorry. I thought you'd be awake…or haven't you heard? Agent Fisher has called for an evacuation."

"Yes, I heard. Are you here to help me pack?"

"I'm here to make you an offer." Tucker snarled, "Mainly because I think it's such a waste for a woman of your caliber to end up paying for Claire Dearing's sins. Also, I don't think an orange jumpsuit would suit your skin tone."

Celia's lips tightened, "Maybe you should come back when you're sober." She moved to close the door, but Tucker wedged a foot in it, forcing it back open.

"What you're doing is illegal." She warned, muscles clenching along with her jaw.

"Not as illegal as aiding and abetting theft of InGen's most confidential archives." Tucker hissed in her face, "Or are you going to play dumb and say you thought the figurines you had smuggled in for Lowery were _not_ , in fact, a bribe?"

Her eyes widened. "I…I don't know what you're…"

"So we _are_ playing dumb. That's disappointing. I expected more from an educated woman like yourself, Celia," Tucker leaned a hand on the doorway, "or should I call you, _Cadtn_?"

He had her. She knew as much. The young woman wrapped her arms around herself and glared.

"If you're so sure of yourself, why don't you just take this all to Agent Fisher?"

"Oh I intend to. But, as I said, there's no reason for you to pay for Claire's misdeeds." He raised his eyebrows, "In fact, I'd be more than happy to support any statements made about her…powers of persuasion. You _were_ threatened into helping, after all. Isn't that right, Celia?"

Celia eyed the man frostily. A tense minute later, and her path to self-preservation had been selected.

* * *

Claire hadn't watched a sunrise in years. It wasn't that she had never been up at the crack of dawn. Her schedule often mandated dragging herself out of the cozy tangle of limbs and blankets she'd come to treasure at an unreasonable hour. But in the rush of grabbing coffee and slapping on mascara, Claire rarely found the time to stop and enjoy the glorious Central American _amanecer_.

She didn't really have time this morning, either. The ferries were set to arrive that evening and the evacuation had likely come to a standstill in her absence. But, for some reason, Claire found herself standing on the porch of Owen's bungalow, basking in the morning rays. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of fresh earth, the rich sounds of nature…

The clanging of pots.

Pots? Claire opened her eyes, frowning at the cacophony coming from inside the bungalow. She poked her head through the door, and immediately pursed her lips in displeasure.

Owen, whom she had left blissfully asleep, was not only up and dressed. The man was beating a cast-iron frying pan with a metal spatula…directly above Stan's head.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!" Owen wore a wicked grin as he continued the horrendous clanging.

His son's face was planted in a sofa cushion. A barely-intelligible groan was uttered. Claire thought she heard the words 'fuck' and 'you' and 'Maleficent' somewhere in the moaning.

"Owen! Leave him alone!" She shoved her boyfriend, horrified at his actions, "It's six AM, for goodness' sake. Just let him sleep!"

"Claire, _please_. Let's not _coddle_ the man. I mean, Stanley's an _adult_!" Owen spread his arms, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "Guy can hold his liquor! Ain't that right, Stan?" Here he tapped the ladle (not exactly gently) on the crown of Stan's head.

Another groan, louder than the first, sounded. Stan lifted his face out of the pillow long enough to glare at Owen. "I hate you."

"Me? _I_ ain't the reason you feel like a jackhammer's renting out your brain." Owen filled a glass of water from a large, plastic bottle as he spoke, "You wanna run with the big boys, you gotta walk the walk, dude. You think a hangover gets you a day off work? I got news for you; you're gonna run out of sick days pretty fast – paychecks, too, come to think of it. That the kinda life you want?"

"Ungh, shut _up_!" Stan threw a sofa cushion at his father. The simple action caused him to promptly hurl the contents of his stomach onto the wooden floor.

"Nice work." Claire snapped at Owen, shoving past him en route to the sink. He simply smiled at her before sinking onto the sofa beside Stan, who was still chucking up Bourbon. Owen rubbed his son's heaving back with a resigned sigh.

"Better out than in, kid."

A low, piteous moan was his answer, followed by an "I'm never drinking again."

Owen laughed despite himself, "Of course you are. Now get up." He patted Stan's shoulders, "We gotta go."

It turned out Stan had _literally_ run all the way to the bungalow. Owen would have been proud of the feat, had it not been accomplished in the pitch-black and in a stone-drunk state. As it was, he decided they had more important things to focus on and magnanimously let Stanley off the hook.

At least, that was how _Owen_ saw it. It was very obvious to everyone else that aggravating his son's hangover at every opportunity was Owen's choice of punishment.

By the time all three reached the base (Owen had insisted on going on foot to collect Claire's golf cart, returning it for her and Stanley, then tailing them on his bike), Stan had puked up two-thirds of a whiskey decanter, kept down some water and aspirin, and was looking only mildly green. He was obviously still feeling wretched, if the painful-looking squint he aimed at the HQ building was anything to go by. Claire winced at him sympathetically.

"You want to wait in the cart? I just need to talk with Fisher…"

"Did you steal Tucker's files?"

Claire sucked in a breath at the out-of-the-blue question, "Why are you asking me about that?"

"Are you gonna answer my question, or just continue deflecting it with your own?"

"Claire!" A panicking employee was waving at her from the doorway, "We need you in here, _now_!"

"Stan," Claire tried to make eye contact. It was denied. "Listen to me. There's a lot going on here that you don't understand and I'm sorry, but I can't explain it right now. You just have to trust me."

"You don't have to explain it." He unbuckled his seatbelt, "I know you're a good person, Claire. I _do_ trust you. I just…there's more going on here than you think, and I can't explain it all either. Just…I hope you trust me, too."

Something about those words made Claire worry. But she didn't have time to address it. Owen was already helping her out of the golf cart.

"Something's going on in there. Come on, hurry!"

"So I'm just gonna go wait back at the cabin…" Stan nursed his aching head with one hand.

"Tucker has people casing the joint. You're waiting in the cart." Owen summarily shut down his escape attempt. Stan thought his father did a great job of smothering his evil glee behind a sober mask.

Contrary to that belief, Owen was anything but gleeful. In fact, the line between his eyebrows deepened as the two strode into the building only to be cornered by a group of Fisher's agents.

"There a problem?" Owen asked them grimly. He noted Tucker and Jolene at the back of crowd. The latter moved quickly to the front and pinned them with a cryptic look.

"Mr. Tucker has brought some fresh evidence to my attention." She nodded at Claire, "It, unfortunately, implicates Ms. Dearing and yourself in the theft of protected company property."

"You're kidding me. Again?" Owen snapped in disbelief. Claire shared his feelings.

"Agent Fisher, if this is about that _ridiculous_ camera screenshot, we really have more urgent matters to…"

"We have Celia's testimony!" Tucker clasped his hands behind his back with a malicious grin, "Your assistant has not only confessed to aiding and abetting – under pressure, I might add – but she has also provided us with incriminating digital exchanges linking you and Lowery to the crime!"

Stunned, Claire's eyes flickered to Owen, and his to hers.

"Celia's evidence is going to be…difficult…to disprove." Agent Fisher crossed her arms, her tone sad and resigned, "I'm afraid I have to take you and Owen into custody until a proper investigation can be carried out back in the United States."

"What?" Claire exploded.

"Listen to me," Owen moved closer to Fisher to speak in a hushed tone, "I get the position you're in. But this isn't what it looks like. You take me and Claire out of the picture before we leave this island, and that asshole's gonna have a field day with your evacuation."

"You trying to tell me how to do my job, Mr. Grady?"

"No, ma'am." He eyed her earnestly, "Just trying to do _mine_."

Fisher huffed through her nose, "Richard Wisner called me this morning." She whispered, "I know what Tucker's playing at. But his people outnumber mine and so do his reptiles. If I don't fool him into thinking I'm playing ball, our chances of getting everyone off this island in one piece are _real_ slim. And isn't _that_ your job?"

Owen's mouth drew a tight line, "You don't know Tucker like I do. He won't let you destroy his life's work without taking you down in process."

"I know how to handle a dirty crook, Mr. Grady." Fisher raised an eyebrow as she backed away, "That's _my_ job." She nodded at her agents, raising her voice, "Arrest them."

"You're making a mistake!" Claire protested as she and Owen were cuffed. They had the dignity not to struggle, outnumbered as they were.

"That's what they all say, Ms. Dearing." Fisher responded wryly, "Take them on board our boat and keep them in the brig. Call me when the ferries arrive."

"Jolene!" Owen yelled sharply over the reading of their Miranda rights, "You don't know what he's capable of!"

Tucker looked like a peacock strutting its feathers. He smirked at the vicious glares the pair wore as they were led away.

Stan looked up in horror as Owen and Claire were shuffled out of the building in handcuffs. Mind racing with his heartbeat, he jumped out of the golf cart and rushed to their side.

"What the hell?! What are you doing? Let them go!" He shoved at the nearest agent.

"It's fine! We'll be okay!" Claire tried to reassure him, nearly tripping as they were herded towards a car.

"Dad!" Stan was frantic as he ran alongside them, "What's happening? Where are they taking you?"

"Don't worry about us!" Owen insisted calmly, "Just find Barry and get on the first boat that docks, do you hear me?" He struggled with an agent attempting to shove his head inside the car, "Stanley!"

"It's my fault." Stan was clutching his hair and muttering incoherently, "Oh my god, it's all my fault."

"Stanley!" Owen yelled, genuinely concerned that his son would forget the order in his state. It took three agents to subdue the man and wrestle him into the backseat.

Watching helplessly as the vehicle sped away, Stan fought off the urge to vomit. His first instinct was to run into the building and plunge his father's knife into Tucker's jugular. He couldn't believe the man had a found a way to twist the evidence Stan had brought him. He thought he'd successfully laid a bread crumb trail leading _away_ from Claire. But now, the realization hit Stan that he'd bitten off more than he could chew by taking on a man like Tucker.

Forcing deep breaths, Stan shut his eyes against the panic. When he opened them again, Stan abandoned his path for the main building and blazed a new trail.

* * *

Claire and Owen were escorted aboard the federal agent's gargantuan speedboat. Fisher's people had kept frustratingly silent despite their attempts to warn the agents of the threat Tucker and Randall posed to the evacuation. The agents simply hauled the pair below deck and into the cramped, windowless room Fisher called her brig.

After a stern advisory against risking escape, Claire and Owen's handcuffs were removed and the heavy steel door slammed shut and locked. The only sound that reigned was the slap of the soft waves against the hull of the speedboat.

"Are you okay?" Owen rushed to Claire's side as she rubbed at her wrists.

"I'm fine." She said tightly, "Actually, I'm _not_ fine. I can't _believe_ that Celia sold us out!"

"You do know how to pick'em." Owen grunted as he paced, "Though someone musta ratted _her_ out first. Can't imagine what she'd stand to gain by any of this."

"The only person who could do that is Lowery. And since Celia gave him up as well, I highly doubt that it was him." Claire's head disappeared into her palms, "What are we going to do?" She groaned.

"Nothing we _can_ do. We're sitting ducks until Jolene decides she's played Tucker long enough to get everyone off the island." Owen's hands were on his hips, "Or until someone busts us out."

How long either one would take was a mystery.

* * *

The late afternoon sun had clouded over by the time the passenger ferries docked at Isla Nublar's harbor. A drab curtain of rain had begun to fall, spitting onto the crowds pilgrimaging to the boats. Anxious, haggard faces of InGen and Masrani employees alike, most carried only personal belongings as they trudged along. Large trucks, loaded with the park's salvageable equipment and data, blazed a trail ahead of them. Security was tight, and deadlines were tighter.

Fisher watched the exodus from a second-floor window. "You know, I met Simon Masrani about a year before he opened the park." She commented to the figure who'd stormed into the room, "The man was an eccentric to say the least. But at least he didn't have to watch his dream being carted off in Styrofoam-filled boxes."

"He might feel better if he knew the person _responsible_ was locked in your brig instead of the people trying to _help_!"

"Stanley," Fisher turned calmly to face him, "you need to trust me. I know Claire is working for Masrani Corps, and I know what she's trying to expose. I've already notified my superiors. Believe me, this is only temporary."

The teenager clenched his fist, "That's not good enough."

"Well, it'll have to be." She titled her head, "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you have a boat to catch. Your dad might be in handcuffs, but if I left you behind by accident, he'd likely strangle me with the chain. Mr. Cummings has graciously agreed to accompany you. Phil! Tim!"

A thick-set man with an earpiece poked his head in the door. He was followed by Phil Cummings (whose nose was looking considerably improved). Fisher waved them both at Stanley.

"Please escort Mister Simmons to the speedboat. And make sure he doesn't wander off. I hear he does that." She threw Stan a sharp look, which he returned.

"Oh and by the way," Fisher called softly as Phil placed a hand on Stan's shoulders, "I was going to write you up for underage drinking, but after our little talk last night, I think I might recommend they take another look at those scars of yours instead."

Stunned, the boy looked up from where he'd been glaring at his shoes. He didn't remember any conversation with Fisher. Then again, he didn't remember _anything_ from the previous night.

"Have a nice day, Stanley." The woman smiled, almost warmly, at him, before Tim and Phil herded him outside.

Neither of them saw Randall lumbering behind the water cooler in the hallway. The man's eyes gleamed under his hardhat as he pulled out his cell phone.

* * *

"Tucker, it's me." Randall watched Stan led away as he muttered into his cell, "Fisher's still in the Dearing bitch's pocket. The arrest is just a goddamn circus show...Yeah I can meet you." He squinted, "What do you need with a _cage_?"

* * *

Stan shoved Phil's hand off his shoulders as soon as they cleared the building. "Get off me!"

"There's no need to be hostile." The man chided.

"Oh really? Because going behind my back to Tucker for a DNA test makes me pretty freaking hostile!"

"What? Give us a second." Phil parlayed with Tim before turning back to the incensed teenager, "Stanley, what are you talking about? What DNA test?"

" _This_ DNA test!" Stan shook a crumpled envelope, "You know, the one saying Owen's not my biological father? Tucker says you brought him the samples and asked him to run them through his lab!"

"Let me see that." Phil opened his palm, and Stan shoved it in his hand, disgusted. He examined the paper, "This can't be right. We ran a test two months ago through our Chicago lab. The match came up positive."

The boy tempered hope with skepticism. It was his nature. "Well, then how do you explain _that_?"

"I _can't_ explain it – not without calling Tucker a liar." Phil handed the envelope back, "Stanley, do you honestly believe we would _even_ consider contacting a man like Grady without making _sure_ he was actually your father?" His disdain for Owen rang clear.

Stan let go of something he'd been holding tight inside him, "So he _is_ , then."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I saw the lab results myself. The DNA samples were pulled from both your medical records." Phil sounded forlorn, "It was a perfect match."

Stan would like to have walked with the rest of the fleeing evacuees. It would've given him a chance to clear his head. But Tim and Phil had insisted they ride in a golf cart to the docks. Maybe they didn't trust Stan not to bolt. Maybe they were just lazy. Stan really didn't care.

He was still brooding anxiously over Fisher's comment about his grandparents when the docks came into view. A row of large, white passenger boats bobbed gently with the waves. Stan's mom used to read him the Hans Christian Anderson story of the Little Mermaid, and he remembered the princess had become the foam of the ocean, breaking against the sterns of proud boats, sandy shores and rocks.

 _Disney really know how whitewash the classics_. Stan buried a stab of pain in an idle observation. It was then that he spotted a train of movement lumbering through the trees in the distance. He squinted, snatching the binoculars kept in the glove compartment of every InGen golf cart. Upon closer inspection, he counted two heavily-armed trucks tearing a path in the opposite direction of the evacuation party.

"Hey." He nudged Tim, (Phil was busy texting), "You see that?"

Tim removed his shades (it was about time, in Stan's opinion, considering that night had all but fallen). "See what?"

"Why are they going to the far side paddocks?" Stan murmured, "The herbivores are already gone."

"Fisher says everyone's already left base and are heading for the docks."

"Well, _they_ aren't!"

"Who's that?"

Stan handed Tim the binoculars and aimed his index finger at the trees, "Over there. Those trucks are going far-side."

The agent gave him a patronizing look, "That's probably just a herd of dinosaurs." He returned to focus on his steering.

Stan snatched the binoculars back, cursing his luck at once again having been paired with an inferior being. He took another long look at the trucks and their surroundings, and in a moment, a light bulb flashed in his head.

"Blue. We have to turn around!" He shook Phil's shoulder, "We have to go back! Blue's in trouble. They're going after her. We have to stop them!"

"Look, Stanley, I know your father's insistence on treating that rabid animal like a pet has set a bad example," Phil responded, "but _Blue_ is extremely dangerous. If they're going after her, I'm sure they have their reasons. One less dinosaur to worry about."

The remark infuriated Stan, "You want to see another example my father set me?" He followed it up with a solid fist to Phil's jaw.

While the man was nursing his chin, Stan seized his chance. He slid quickly from the golf cart into the thronging mass. Spotting Barry's pick-up truck with Owen's Triumph Scrambler mounted in the back, he snuck aboard the vehicle as it inched through the thronging crowd.

Barry felt the thump of the back gate being let down before he heard the revving of the engine.

"What the hell?" His jaw dropped in disbelief as he watched Stan take off with the motorcycle and disappear into the tide of people.

Barry shook his head incredulously, "Oh, no he didn't."

* * *

Lowery was shoving his belongings into a duffel bag when he jumped at a pounding on his door.

"Go away!" He yelled, fingers shaking as he continued to pack.

The heavy banging continued.

"Oh god." Lowery breathed, fearing the game was up. He'd heard the Celia had spilled on him and Claire and had spent the whole day hiding from the feds (and Tucker) in his bunker. But if he didn't move, he'd miss the ferries. Lowery had taken advantage of the evacuation mayhem to sneak back to his official housing for a few essentials.

After a steady stream of pounding, Lowery decided it was time for a game of chicken.

"Clear off!" He called in what he hoped was an assertive voice. His hand fell to the G21 handgun sitting atop his desk. Granted, he'd never fired the damn thing in his life. But Lowery was fairly confident that if Claire could do it, so could he.

"I…I…I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!"

"Lowery, it's Stan! Open the damn door!"

Lowery practically deflated in relief. "Punk kid." He muttered, embarrassed at his trembling visage in the window pane as he unlocked the door.

"You alone?" He demanded.

"Lucky for you." Stan was red-faced and out of breath, but there was a wild light in his eyes as he shoved his way inside, "How could you throw Claire under the bus, Lowery? She's your friend! She saved your ass more times than…"

"What makes you think _I_ had anything to do with this? I'm on the run, _too_ , you know!"

"Yeah? Well, while you're busy _running_ , Claire and Owen are on lock-down in Agent Fisher's brig!"

"You realize that by the time Masrani Corps have finished batting for them, they'll be cashing in a fat compensation check, right?" Lowery continued packing.

"I don't care!" Stan slammed his hand on top of the duffel bag, "Owen and Claire were the only thing standing between Tucker and his psychotic urges! If we don't do something…"

"What urges? What are you talking about?"

"Tucker knows where Blue is. He's going to kill her unless we stop him!" Stan indicated at the man's weapon, "You said you're not afraid to use that thing. Let's go!"

"Whoa, now, when I said that, I meant…Stan, the boats are waiting at the…STANLEY!" Lowery yelled after the teenager as he charged out of the cabin. He muttered angrily as he snatched up his gun, "Oh great. Now I _have_ to help him."

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Lowery gave chase after Stanley. He stopped dead as he saw Owen's bike.

"Oh no, you _didn't_!"

* * *

Owen and Claire had spent the better part of the day locked in Fisher's brig. The hours had dragged by at a snail's pace, dripping like rain in a bucket. Each second was painful, full of anxiety and anger and dread and impatience.

The sound of the door being unlocked was like music to their ears. Owen and Claire sprang up from the fitted bench, expecting a parade of agents or perhaps, Fisher herself.

Which is why Phil Cummings caught the couple completely off guard.

"I'm fine. I'll be _fine_!" Phil was huffing at the agent in the hallway. He turned and heaved a long sigh, "I know I'm probably the last person you're expecting…"

"Wow. Your nose is looking _great_!"

"Corrective surgery. It was very difficult getting an appointment at the clinic. Apparently, the three of you have been hogging the good doctors all week." Phil brushed at his sleeve haughtily.

"Well now that's out of the way," Claire rolled her eyes, "What do you want?"

"Well, seeing as Mr. Grady is under arrest and has made no legal arrangements for the care of Stanley in his absence, I was obligated to…"

"Great! I give you power of attorney, or, you know, whatever it is you need. Just go find him and make sure he gets his ass on a boat!"

"I'm afraid that's the issue." Phil snapped, "The boats made port an hour ago…"

"An hour ago? What time is it?" Claire, having given Stanley her spare cell phone the previous day, was at a loss.

"It's six PM. Anyway, Fisher asked me to escort Stanley to the boats. On the way to the golf cart, however, Stanley refused to accompany me. He said that I had conspired with Tucker to discredit your claim to parentage."

" _English_ , Phil!"

"He seems to think I said you're not his father." The man rephrased it, exasperated, "He showed me some lab results of a DNA test I _supposedly_ asked Tucker for. When I explained I'd done no such thing and that we'd already confirmed your biological connection before contacting you, it only seemed to make Stanley even angrier."

"Jesus." Owen turned away in disbelief, "It's like a goddamn soap opera!"

"Why would Tucker go to the trouble of forging DNA results he knew would be disproven?" Claire queried.

"Why does that asshole do _anything_ , Claire?" Owen snapped, his fists curling in, "Where is Stanley now?"

"Well, I…he became very incoherent, rambling on about that raptor of yours. He insisted that she was some kind of danger, and that we go to her aid immediately. When I told him that wouldn't be possible, he…he attacked me." Phil straightened his ruffled collar.

"He _attacked_ you?" Claire's brow furrowed.

"The kid weighs, like, ninety pounds!" Owen was frustrated beyond belief.

"He had a lot of rage!" Phil protested, blushing.

"Owen!" Barry came rushing in, shoving past the agent at the door, "Stanley's gone after Tucker. I tried to stop him, but he took your motorcycle and…"

"Whoa! Not cool!" Owen's eyebrows narrowed, "He _took_ my _bike_?"

"Like I said, I tried to stop him!"

"That's it." Owen stormed towards the open door.

"Where are you going?" Claire demanded.

"Where do you think? I'm not letting _Stan_ drive my Scrambler!"

"Stan's on the warpath and you're worried about your _motorcycle_?"

" _Yes_!" He clarified loudly, "And Stanley _on_ my motorcycle."

She rolled her eyes. "We can't go anywhere. In case you hadn't noticed, we're still under arrest!"

Owen turned to Barry, "How many agents between us and freedom?"

"Just Tim."

"Move or be moved, Tim!" Owen called through the door, and the agent popped his chewing gum in a neat bubble.

"I'm getting married next week. Don't exactly fancy walking a nose like his down the aisle." He nodded at Phil Cummings, "Especially not for some bogus arrest. Just say you knocked me out and do whatever the hell you want."

"Solid choice." Owen caught the rifle Barry tossed him and raised his eyebrows at Phil, "Any objections, Phil?"

"Just _go_." The man snarled as Owen, Claire and Barry hurried past him.

"Meant what I said about the nose, by the way. Really looking better."

"Owen, let's _go_!"

* * *

"Alright, let's load her up!" Randall barked at his team, waving at the heavy steel cage lying in wait behind him. Trained professionals though they were, the men moved sluggishly, cowed by the formidable beast inside the truck. They opened the back door slowly, gingerly. Randall rolled his eyes.

"She's shot full of tranqs, for God's sake! Quit pussyfooting around and put her in the goddamn cage!"

Blue was bound tightly claw, foot, mouth. Her eyes, glazed and bleary, followed her captors as they slid her onto a giant gurney. The raptor had already been sedated when they came for her, and Tucker had made sure Blue was riddled with tranquilizer darts before his men even _attempted_ to take her.

She could do nothing but let out low clicks of distress as she was roughly dumped off the gurney and into the cage.

Tucker stood over her, leering, drunk on power and cheap gin. He trailed a hand across the bars as the cage slammed shut.

"So this is Owen Grady's special little pet." He cocked his head at her, "You're almost as ugly as _he_ is."

The rain had picked up, drenching the broken concrete encasing Tucker's chosen field of victory – the Mosasaur arena. The group were just outside the enclosure, and the rank smell of filthy water was slapped in their faces by gusts of wind.

"Hook her up!" Tucker ordered. Randall nodded at a set of men who hauled the sturdy hook attached to the feeding line. The hook normally carried a shark. Tonight, however, the Mosasaur would be breaking her diet.

Tucker watched as the hook was attached firmly to the cage holding Blue. Fingering a slender remote, he pondered how satisfying it would feel to press that button and open the bottom of that cage once it hung over the center of the lake. Blue would be swallowed whole, lost forever to Owen in a horrifying death Tucker only wished the man could witness.

Tucker would make sure to film it. And if the footage just so happened to leak online, well…payback was a bitch.

At a command from Randall, a button was pushed and the pulleys began hauling the cage along the upward slant of the thick line. It was a slow process, and Tucker watched it climb with mounting satisfaction.

"Tucker! We should make for the boats!" Randall yelled over the spray of the rain, "Costa Rican's will scuttle us for illegals if we're not with the ferries!"

The group cleared the site, tearing up the mud with their heavy vehicles as they ploughed a path for the harbor. They missed the head poking out of the bushes in their absence.

* * *

Stan, covered in mud and grime from head to toe, wrestled free of the thicket, "Come on!"

Lowery stumbled out after him, his glasses cracked and askew, "This is insane!" He yelled, soaked to the bone, "We should go back for help!"

"There's no time!" Stan ran to the control box, "Here, show me how this thing works! We have to get Blue back down here."

"I work in the _control_ room!" Lowery protested, "If it's not digital, it's going to be a very complicated process for me to…"

"Never mind!" Stan had already found the means to accomplish his task. Jabbing the correct set of buttons, he stopped the cage dead in the middle of the line. Another punch and it was reversing back down the cable.

"Okay, Baby Genius!" Lowery held his arm over his head as the rain pelted down, "So we get Blue down here and then what? Huh? Is there a part two in this little plan of yours?"

"Yeah. We let her out!" Stan was practically bouncing on his feet as the cage moved closer.

"And what if she decides to eat us for our trouble, huh? What then?"

"She's sedated! By the time she's capable of eating us, we'll be long gone!" Stan stepped back as the cage touched down with a noisy slap in the thick mud. Blue's sides rose and fell, but other than that, she remained motionless. "Okay. Help me get this thing open!"

Together, they removed the giant bolt barred across the cage's door. With considerable effort, they managed to get the gate open.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?" Lowery raised his hands as Stan fell to his knees beside the raptor, "Stan, you're not _Owen_!"

"Owen doesn't have the market on rescue missions!" The boy made short work of the bonds of Blue's hind and front claws with Owen's knife, "She doesn't stand a chance of survival all trussed up!"

"Oh my god, I can't watch this!" Lowery shielded his eyes as Stan inched a hand towards her snout.

"Easy." Stan muttered gruffly, as Blue lifted her head weakly, "Easy, girl."

He reached behind her skull and clipped the ropes in one clean cut. Blue threw back her head and let out a volley of high-pitched cries. Stan jumped out of the cage, but the raptor seemed to have no interest in attacking him.

Stan turned a wide smile on Lowery. "She doesn't even want to eat us! I told you we could do it!"

"Well, great! You want a medal or something?" The man snarled, "Let's go. It's gonna be a nightmare getting back in this rain. And don't expect a 'thank you' from Owen, either! The man is gonna _skin_ you when he finds out about this!"

"I know." Stan wore a giddy smile as he followed Lowery in the direction of the bike. The two froze at a rustling in the bushes. Dark figures rushed past them, kicking up mud and knocking raindrops off the branches. Lowery backed into Stan and gripped his arm.

"I think we've got company."

Suddenly, a Velociraptor stalked out of the brush. Its back and neck were dipped low, extended outwards as it hissed at the men. To its left and right, two more raptors broke cover. Their claws and teeth were bared as they slowly, purposefully closed in.

Stan's lips whitened as he bit down hard. His grip closed around his father's knife.

"Okay." Lowery's breath came in short spurts, "Just…don't…panic."

Stan eyed him grimly, "It's a little late for that."

* * *

 _ **Hey you! Person who is thinking about not reviewing. A little feedback never hurt anybody. Well, it has, but it never ruffles an author as awesome as yours truly. Give me SOMETHING, baby! - Tyler**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Here it is. The last chapter. Really want to thank everyone who has taken time to review and enjoy this story with me. It's been great fun. Let's do it again sometime. - Tyler**_

* * *

Randall beat the horn of his jeep in frustration as Tucker's car stalled for the fifth time. Their train were braving the slippery descent back to the docks. Mud flowed freely, sucking at their tires and holding up progress.

But that wasn't why Tucker had stopped dead in his tracks. The man's head was out the window and he was eyeing the skyline with a snarl.

"Get a move on, Tucker, for God's sake!" Randall hollered.

"Something's wrong!" Tucker called, taking a swig from his flask, "The cage. It's stopped moving."

"Probably just a malfunction. Who cares how that little bitch dies? Let's go!"

"No, no, no." Tucker muttered to himself, "That line never malfunctions. Someone's trying to help her. Not on _my_ watch." He revved his engine and attempted to turn his vehicle. The wheels span uselessly in the mud.

"Let's get some boards out here!" Randall yelled to his men. Tucker had already unbuckled his seatbelt and was scrambling out of the car, "Oh Jesus, what the hell are you doing now?"

"It's Grady. It's gotta be!" Tucker pulled a gun from his glove compartment, "I'm not letting that son of a bitch screw my one chance at payback! Come on!"

"Are you insane?" Randall called over the drumming of the rain, "I'm not hauling my crew all the way back through this sludge just so you can get your kicks!"

Tucker swiped at branches in his path drunkenly as he ploughed ahead, ignoring the man.

"Tucker!" Randall growled, "Fine, it's your funeral! Let's keep moving, people!"

* * *

The roads had flooded again. After finding Blue's paddock empty, their fears were confirmed. Owen, Barry and Claire were forced to abandon their vehicle after the tires mysteriously collided with a blowout line laid across the path.

Tucker was playing dirty.

"The rain's washed out the tracks!" Barry called, hoisting his weapon from the rear of the truck, "I don't know where to look, Owen!"

The sun had set, long since shrouded by angry clouds. Isla Nublar was under a deadly blanket of darkness. They all knew, however, that the island never slept.

Claire swiped a palm across her face, clearing it of raindrops. She pointed in the distance, "Look!"

Owen and Barry followed her line of sight to the encasement of artificial lights blinking afar off.

"That's the Mosasaur lagoon." Barry squinted.

"Why the hell is it lit up?" Owen pitched the question to himself. Claire overhead.

"Fisher would've had the power killed when she cleared out. It's evacuation protocol!"

Her boyfriend shouldered his rifle grimly, "Come on."

They hiked through sludge, rain and treacherous turf until they reach the concrete trail leading to the park's aquatic attraction. Claire batted aside an overgrown palm leaf, only to be caught up in a vice-grip. A hand covered her mouth. The cold muzzle of a gun kissed the hollow of her neck.

"Late again, Ms. Dearing." Tucker breathed stale gin in her ear, "This is really becoming a habit."

She struggled in his hold. The gun came up tightly under her chin.

"Ah, ah, ah." Tucker chided, "We're about to have ourselves a little party! We're just waiting for a few more guests. Ah!" He called out gleefully as Owen and Barry rounded the bend, "Gentlemen! Ms. Dearing and I were wondering when you were going to join in the fun!"

Owen's nostrils flared, his mouth set in a clenched jaw, "Have you lost your goddamn mind?" He moved forward like a roused bull.

"Careful!" Tucker warned fiercely, shoving Claire's chin up higher with the force of his gun, "My trigger finger's mighty slippery these days!"

"What do you want, Tucker?" Owen demanded furiously.

"Justice, Grady. I want justice. But since that's apparently too much to ask of Federal Agent Fisher," The man wrapped an arm tightly around Claire's shoulders, "I'll have to settle for Ms. Dearing's brains all over my nice, new boots."

"You son of a bitch." Claire snapped, jerking her head away. Tucker subdued her with brute force. Owen looked ready to lose it.

"Hey!" He snarled in the commanding tone he used on his raptors (and Stanley, but the kid didn't know it was the same tone, so it didn't count), "You want justice, Tucker? How are you gonna get it if you blow her away, huh?"

"That _is_ justice!" Tucker screamed, ditching his cool façade, "I gave the best years of my life to InGen, paid my dues, spat and polished the boots of those smug bastards on the board!"

Barry nudged Owen subtly, and the man followed his friend's eyes to a movement in the trees. Pint-sized shadows darted, inching closer. Owen gripped his gun while Tucker continued his monologue.

"I was Hammond's favorite, you know that? No one else got him like I did. He wanted to name me his successor, but the board shut him down!"

"Oh don't be ridiculous!" Claire butted in, "Everyone knows that little story never happened!"

"And you!" Tucker fisted her hair, hauling her head backwards, "You were nothing but Masrani's office whore until he stuck you on a goddamn pedestal! But that wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to stick your nose in my business."

Owen could see them now. The remainder of the Compy pack had gathered less than a meter from Tucker's back. He thought fast, counting down the seconds until a move could be made.

"Well, guess what?" Tucker snarled, "By the time Masrani Corps brings that evidence you stole to court, I'll be getting my john sucked by a Tahitian bombshell. But you two?" He nodded at Owen, "Stan can stick you in the ground if he can find all the pieces. That's if he even _wants_ to. I don't know if you heard, but uh, a little birdie told us both you're not his real father."

"Yeah, I heard." Owen shifted his footing, eyes glued to Tucker as he prepared to attack, "Your social worker pal told me all about it. The _real_ version, though – you know, the one where you're full of shit and I _am_ Stan's real father? But the thing is, Tucker," He took a cautious step forward as the Compys jostled their haunches to pounce, "Even if I _wasn't_ , I'd _want_ to be."

"Well, you're an idiot!"

"True. But at least I know how to inspire loyalty in people. And more importantly, in dinosaurs." Owen waved a finger at the Compys with a raise of his eyebrows.

Tucker threw a look over his shoulder. Claire dropped her legs from under her, wrenching free by means of weight as she hit the mud. Tucker stumbled, aiming his gun at the advancing Compys as they bared their claws and hissed at him.

Owen helped Claire to her feet, flinching as Tucker fired off a shot that glanced off a tree beside their faces. The man was waving his gun wildly between them and the mini reptiles closing in on him.

"You're dead! You're all dead!" Tucker hollered, letting loose another volley of bullets at the trio. Owen dove behind a tree, pulling Claire with him. Barry grunted as he caught a shot in the shoulder, but scrambled successfully to cover.

"I'm going to kill you all!" Tucker screamed, his voice unnatural with rabid fear. He fired at the Compys, who skirted around his feet and up his legs, "Get off! Get off!" He shook himself, screamed as tiny teeth pierced his skin, and fired off more shots.

Owen, Claire and Barry watched as Tucker stumbled away, blood streaming from his face and hands. The Compys had latched on, scurrying over him like reptilian spiders, biting, scratching, tearing.

Barry clutched his bleeding shoulder with one hand and gripped Owen's arm with the other. "Look! Up there!" He pointed to the heavy cable which streamed across the mosasaur lagoon. A cage was sliding down from what had obviously been an uphill journey. The weak bleat of a raptor echoed from above.

"It's Blue! Come on." Barry urged.

"What about him?" Owen nodded grimly at Tucker's writhing, screaming form.

"What _about_ him?" His friend asked coldly. The intent in his voice was clear.

"We can't just let them _eat_ him." Claire's tone suggested she didn't exactly object to the idea. Still, her conscience persuaded her against it. Claire grabbed up a fallen tree branch and stepped forward.

Owen reached out to grab hold of her arm, "Claire, _no_!" He panicked as Tucker yanked a Compy off his face and aimed the gun at Claire, pulling the trigger with a hateful scream.

She closed her eyes, waited for the impact of the bullet, for the searing pain. It never came. Dully, Claire realized she was lying in the mud, rain beating at her face. Somebody – Owen – was pinning her beneath him. A ways off, Tucker was sprawled on the ground, motionless. The Compys feasted on his lifeless corpse.

Barry's gun was smoking. The man looked regretful yet determined.

Claire's first coherent thought was that Owen had taken the bullet for her. But after he pulled them both into a sitting position and gripped her to his chest, Claire's fears were put to rest.

"Are you okay?" Owen had his own fears to assuage, "Are you hit?"

"No, I'm fine!" Claire assured him, as they both rose to their feet in the sludge. She cast a distraught look at Tucker's prone body.

Owen nodded soberly at Barry. It was in poor taste to thank a man for taking a life. But the look that passed between them expressed his gratitude for Barry's intervention. They both knew it would have been Claire lying in the mud with a hole in her head had he not.

A raptor call, succinct and forceful this time, rang out. Owen recognized it and his eyes narrowed.

"She's calling for help."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Claire wanted to know.

"That depends." Owen eyed the trees above their heads, waiting for another call to confirm their direction.

"On what?"

"On where Stan is." He pinpointed their path, "That way. Let's _go_!"

* * *

Stan backed away slowly as the raptors advanced. Although obviously gunning for his blood, they seemed cautious, even reluctant to attack him. He and Lowery had been pushed all the way back to the waterfront. The swell of waves crashing against the broken electric fencing suggested the mosasaur was awake – and unhappy.

"Oh my god. Okay. Okay, we have to do something!" Lowery had been babbling non-stop since the raptors appeared, "If we back up any further, we'll be dinner!"

"If we try to run, we'll be dinner, as well!" Stan was terrified, even as he tried to mirror Owen's calm in situations such as this.

Lowery noticed. Unfortunately, this only seemed to upset him.

"So what's your plan? Huh? You gonna stick your hands up and get them to back off? You're _not_ _Owen_!"

"You keep saying that like I don't know it!" Stan snapped, eyes never leaving the raptors. He felt a spray of water from the lagoon and knew there was nowhere to go. The raptors released wide-mouthed hisses, their claws scraping at the concrete and their tails flicking.

"Well…I mean…if you _did_ feel inclined to try the whole Owen routine thing…" Lowery stammered in small voice as he moved closer to Stan, "I mean, you _are_ his kid. You might…smell the same or something…and you're both stubborn blockheads, so…there's that, too…"

Stan's shoulders dropped dismally, wistfully, "I think they've already figured out I'm not as cool as Owen Grady."

Sensing death was imminent, Lowery clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Maybe not, but you're just as crazy." He jumped at a sudden shriek.

Blue had hobbled onto the scene. Her injured leg, lumbered in a giant brace, was slowing her down. But her eyes were sharp and fierce as she clicked and hissed at her raptor pack.

Stan and Lowery were motionless, pulverized with fear. They stood rooted to the spot, watching a fierce vocal confrontation take place between Blue and the other three raptors. Stan narrowed his eyes.

"I think…I think they're _fighting_."

"Over what, first pickings?"

Stan exhaled incredulously, "Over _no_ pickings."

Sure enough, Blue moved steadily to place herself between the pair and their attackers. She drew up on her haunches and made a fierce show of defending her territory. The Alpha was taking sides.

Her raptors didn't care for that. Angry, they snorted, shook their heads, hissed and snapped at Blue. Lowery shook Stan's arm.

"Over there." He pointed to a bulky pair of defunct generators, "Let's make a run for those boxes. The opening's too narrow for a raptor to fit its head. We can hole up till they lose interest. Let's go!"

He shoved Stan in the direction of their escape route. At that moment, Blue's purple Beta made a lunge. Blue slammed her neck in its path, knocking it backwards. It slid a few feet, snarled, and charged again. A second raptor joined it. While the Beta gnawed at Blue's side, its neck in her jaws, the other raptor bounded towards Lowery.

Stan barreled into the man, who skidded across the wet concrete and out of the raptor's reach. The third raptor joined Blue, grappling with the traitor and buying Stan some time. Winded, Stan rolled onto his stomach. His heart stuck in his throat as he saw Owen, Claire and Barry break onto the scene.

His eyes met Owen's. And then a raptor's tail flicked as Blue tackled two at a time, slamming into Stan. His head smacked against the edge of the enclosure before he toppled, unconscious, into the water.

* * *

Claire's scream was primal. It was his son's name. And it matched the fire in his veins that launched Owen into a run at break-neck speed. He wasn't even aware of the snapping, clawing raptors battling around him. He ducked, leaped, rolled, then dove into the swampy water.

Claire watched the flick of the Mosasaur's tail from the other side of the enclosure and felt a deadly calm settle on her. She ran determinedly, feet flying, to a rusty box pinned to the wall. Its cover was stuck shut. Claire slammed her elbow through the glass, not even feeling the shards embedding themselves deep into her bone. Her fingers flew across the buttons, and she stepped back with shining eyes and a heaving chest. Above her, a giant cage began to climb the cable.

Lowery rushed to the side of the lake, screaming Owen's name. The man had yet to break the surface. There was no sign of him or Stanley, and the Mosasaur was making ripples as it grew ever closer. Acting compulsively, Lowery snatched up Owen's rifle which the man had tossed aside.

"Hey!" He screamed, running alongside the Mosasaur's stream-lined body. Lowery fired a round of shots at its lumpy back as it broke the water. Its progress slowed but didn't stop. It was still a long ways off, but that distance meant nothing to a monster its size.

"Oh god…oh god…" Lowery was hyperventilating. Then, he saw Owen's head plunge through the sheen of filthy water. The man had Stan in his arms. The boy's head was bloodied and his blue lips were still. He was deadweight in his father's grip.

Suddenly, Barry was beside Lowery. And he was pulling the pin from a hand grenade.

"Watch out!" He yelled. Then he tossed it at the beast's enormous tail as it flicked in the air.

Lowery braced his head in his hands. Claire pressed herself against the control box. Owen saw the explosion and plunged himself and Stan back under the surface to avoid a hail of flame.

A deafening roar confirmed the hit. The Mosasaur's tail fin was split and singed. The beast writhed it to and fro, sending giant waves rolling through the lagoon. Owen resurfaced, lucky to have been far enough from the blast to avoid hemorrhaging from the shockwaves. He continued to swim, lugging his son in his arms.

He had almost reached the edge when the Mosasaur barreled towards him, anger fueling its warpath. A colossal mouth full of teeth swallowed up water as it opened, closing in the distance. Owen threw Stanley onto the concrete.

And then Claire yanked a lever, and the heavy steel cage meant for Blue dropped from its perch. It slammed into the Mosasaur's skull, and the beast caved with the impact. It bought Owen the seconds he needed to haul himself from the water and drag Stan a safe distance from the edge.

Claire didn't even realize she was crying. The warm tears mixed with the rain, licking at her face. Her entire body trembled as she hurried to Owen's side. Barry and Lowery helped him carry Stan, as they moved further off from the deadly raptor fight.

"He's not breathing." Claire dropped to her knees, Stan's wet mop of hair between her fingers. They came away bloody. "Oh my god."

"Move." Owen moved her gently aside, his military training gracing him with a level head. He pinched Stan's nose shut, blew breaths into his mouth, and began to pump his hands on the boy's chest.

One, two, three, four, five.

"Come on, Stan." Owen muttered, continuing to administer CPR. He blew, and compressed again. There was no response.

Lowery helped Claire to her feet. Tears flowed freely down her face as she clutched her injured arm to her chest. Barry was on his radio, trying to get a signal.

One, two, three, four, five.

Owen began to pump harder, both hands over Stan's heart. Sweat mixed with raindrops glistened on his skin. "You don't get to do this, Stan." He said after blowing another breath into his son's lungs, "You can't just steal my Scrambler and then die before I get the chance to kick your ass for it."

More breathing. More compression.

One, two, three, four, five.

Stan was motionless, white. Blood stained the asphalt under his head from the offending gash.

"Fisher sent a search party out half an hour ago." Barry informed the others breathlessly, "I gave them our coordinates! They should reach us in ten minutes."

"Stan doesn't have that long!" Claire burst out, "He needs medical attention _now_!" How long had Stan been unconscious? How many minutes before brain damage set in? Claire felt sick and helpless. She didn't know how Owen could be so calm.

"Goddamn it, Stanley!"

Apparently, he was done being calm.

Owen breathed a new wave of air into Stan's lungs and pumped with renewed force. His face was gathered in fury that Claire realized masked his panic.

"Will you just do as you're told for once in your life and breathe?" Owen snarled between heavy-handed chest compressions, "Because I am _unletting_ you do this, you understand me?"

Lowery adjusted his battered glasses, "That's…not a word." He mumbled in confusion.

"It is for them." Claire whispered.

And suddenly, like magic, Stan lurched. Filthy water shot from his lungs, spilling over the sides of his face as he choked. Owen eased him up, face as pale as his son's. Stan chucked what seemed like half of the lagoon onto the ground before he slumped woozily against Owen.

"Good boy." Owen muttered into Stan's hair, "Good boy."

Claire clamped a hand down on Barry's arm as a dinosaur rounded the corner. It was Blue. Her azure hide was stained with blood. Two raptors flanked her – one significantly more battered than the other and hanging its head in defeat. The Beta was nowhere to be seen.

Owen watched her as she shuffled over, throat clicking. The raptor cocked her head, her reptilian eyes blinking at the man and his son. She appraised them for a long moment, before she dipped her long neck and nudged Stan's limp foot with her snout.

"What's she doing?" Lowery asked Barry tentatively.

Barry smiled, "She's saying thank you."

Owen's hand rose up slowly to rest on Blue's sleek head. The raptor's throat warbled softly as he scratched her scales gently.

"I'll be back." Owen whispered, voice thick with emotion, "And you'll be fine."

The distant shouts of voices brought Blue's head snapping up. She signaled vocally to her pack, and the trio retreated into the blackness without so much as a backwards glance.

"Is it Fisher's team?" Claire joined Barry, watching spokes of artificial light whitewash the concrete around the curb. Their hopes were dashed as Randall turned the corner, eight of his trusted henchmen on his tail.

"I think Fisher's prettier." Barry moved Claire behind him. It was obvious from the loaded weapons in their hands that the men's intentions were less than noble.

"Hands in the air!" Randall cocked his gun at Owen, who was still on the ground cradling Stan, "Get'em up there, Grady!"

"Can't you see he's holding his semi-conscious child?" Claire started forward furiously, but Barry snagged her good arm.

"What the hell did you do to Tucker?" Randall pressed.

"Compys got him." Barry informed them coldly, eyes trained on the myriad of guns.

Randall let out a strangled laugh, "Is that why we found him with a bullet in his skull and his face eaten off?"

Owen eased Stan gently to the ground, moving to stand. His eyes shot daggers at Randall as the man waved his gun in his direction.

"Stay where you are!" Randall redirected his weapon at Claire, "Or I'll blow Ms. Dearing's jaw off. Who knows – might be an improvement."

"That your big plan, Randall?" Owen straightened into a stand, "You kill the four of us…"

"The _five_ of you!" The man snapped, aiming the muzzle of his gun at Stan.

"And then what?" Owen growled, "Huh? Run back to Fisher and tell her you're the lone survivors of some freak accident? You don't think she'll find that more than a little convenient?"

"Maybe I'll kill her too."

"You can't kill everyone." Claire interjected, "Tucker was the one they really wanted, and he's dead. You think the feds won't go after you as his accomplice?"

The flicker of Randall's slanted eyes and the uneasy mutter amongst his men suggested he hadn't considered such an option.

"I can help you, Randall." Claire offered calmly, genuinely, "I can tell Fisher you knew nothing about Tucker's involvement with Wu. We both know that much is true. No reason you should do Tucker's time _for_ him."

"Oh I _won't_ be." He sneered, " _You_ will. My men here will testify to watching you shoot Tucker. Ain't that right, boys?" His words were met with a jeer of agreement, "We'll take you back to Fisher, see what she makes of it. _You_ lot, on the other hand," His gaze, and gun, fell on Owen, "it'll be a pleasure putting you down."

Lowery felt the shudder first. He chalked it up to stress, figuring his knees were giving way at the prospect of being shot to death. But then came a second tremor, stronger than the first. And judging by the sea of perplexed, dismayed faces around him, Lowery realized his knees were not the issue.

The beast's shadow rounded the corner before it did. Then came its head, flared nostrils and open mouth. Isla Nublar's feared T-rex was gatecrashing the party. And, judging by the fierce roar she leveled at the group, she was _highly_ offended at not having been invited.

Everyone was still, rooted to the spot in the kind of mesmerizing paralysis a prehistoric beast commanded. Then someone (to this day, it's widely rumored to have been Lowery) screamed. The T-rex roared again, shaking her head as she advanced one heavy footprint at a time. The beast was in no hurry. She knew dinner when she saw it.

Randall's group broke rank, scattering past Claire and Barry as they fled for cover. Randall charged Owen, leveling his gun with a cry of outrage. Suddenly, a raptor's tail knocked him off his feet. His gun flew in a wide arc and hit the water with a splash.

Blue was back. Her jaws parted and her claws bared, she hissed hot breath in Randall's face as she placed herself between him and Owen.

Claire, Barry and Lowery darted to his side, the two men scooping up Stan as the group slowly backed away. Blue's raptors joined her, forcing Randall backwards as they snapped their teeth.

"Go. _Go_!" Owen grabbed Claire's hand and took up the rear as Barry and Lowery broke into a run. The raptors continued to push Randall backwards, blocking off his exit with claws and teeth and tails. They didn't attack. They didn't need to.

A rabid scream caused Owen and Claire to turn just in time to watch Randall being snapped up in the jaws of the T-rex.

The crunch of bones and dribble of blood was enough to make anyone's skin crawl.

Somewhere in the distance, a transport rumbled. Fisher's team were close. Owen and Blue exchanged a meaningful look before the latter returned her attention to the T-rex. The beast was still licking its chops and paid the raptors little heed.

The sight of it filled Claire and Owen with a chill that would haunt them for years to come.

But just then, escaping in one piece was all that mattered.

* * *

The boat ride to Costa Rica was miserable. The ocean was choppy and the weather bleak. The ferries were overcrowded and packed with frantic people demanding to be prioritized for the first flight home.

Key members of Randall's crew were summarily arrested as soon as the ferries made port. There was a brief exchange of gunfire which ended in no deaths and an addendum to their extensive list of charges.

Upon their arrival in Costa Rica, Owen discovered that some old Navy friends had flown in a chopper to escort him back. Not normally one to accept favors, Owen had done so in light of Stan and Claire's condition. Both had been treated aboard Fisher's speedboat, but Claire's arm needed surgery, and Stan had been slipping in and out of consciousness (although, thankfully, he'd seemed coherent enough in wakefulness for Dr. Shriver to rule out brain damage).

After Claire and Stanley had both spent the night at Hialeah Naval hospital, then, and only then, did Fisher approach Owen. The Miami sunrise shone through the bay windows of a waiting room filled with anxious relatives. The woman limped, still assisted by a crutch, to the vending machine Owen was listlessly perusing.

"I hear there's nothing a good cup of jo can't fix." Fisher handed him a steaming Styrofoam cup.

Owen eyed it critically. "This is from the downstairs cafeteria."

"So it's a shitty cup of jo. I work with what I have, Mr. Grady."

This time, his critical eye trained on _her_ , "And when you have a whole lot of nothing?"

"I improvise." Fisher followed him as he stormed back to the position by the window where he'd taken up vigilance, "I made a decision for the good of all involved. Surely a man in your position can understand that?"

Owen squinted caustically at the woman, "You ever dragged your drowning kid away from a prehistoric sea monster, Agent Fisher?"

She blinked, chastened, "You know I haven't."

"Then you don't know jack about my position."

"Look, I spent all night on the phone with Wisner sorting this mess out. The files were InGen property, which means Claire was technically within her jurisdiction. She's in the clear."

"What are you going to do about Henry Wu?" Owen took a sip of the coffee and winced. It was crap.

"Thanks to the info gathered by Claire, we've managed to pinpoint his location." Fisher propped her crutch against the wall, "He's bunked down in an underground lab in Puerto Rico. There's a team on the way already."

"Great. I'm sure that'll come as consolation when and _if_ she regains full use of her arm."

"I was getting to that." The woman raised an eyebrow. "These came for you." She handed Owen two rectangular strips of paper, "Compensation from Masrani Corps. They said to call it a thank you. I'd say you're more than covered."

Owen took the checks. They were seven-figure numbers. They meant nothing whatsoever to him, and the look he shot the FBI agent said as much.

"Need to ask you some questions about Tucker." Fisher ventured.

"Man was eaten by Compys." Owen had nothing further to say on the topic. It was the same story he'd been repeating since they'd left Isla Nublar.

"I noticed your friend Barry took a bullet."

"Tucker pulled a gun on us. He got jumped by Compys. We skedaddled." He turned sharp eyes on Fisher, "Simple as that."

The agent nodded shrewdly, "And Randall?"

"T-rex got him. Ask his people if you don't believe me." Owen turned his back on her, coffee in hand as he perused the bay window view. The conversation was over.

Jolene pursed her lips, gathered up her crutch, and move to leave. In afterthought, she twisted back around to him.

"I told Stan I was going to have his case reviewed. The one he filed against his grandparents? Unless you'd rather have me drop it."

Owen bristled, jaw clenched. "If he wakes up again, I'll be sure to ask him."

Catching the hostility in his voice, Fisher nodded in resignation and hobbled away.

* * *

It seemed like they were there for months, unwilling residents trapped in a limbo of sleepless nights and harrowed days. Doctor's logs and charts, shots and x-rays blurred alongside cold sandwiches and bad coffee.

Claire's operation was a success. Her elbow sported two impressive pins and was plastered into a bend for the foreseeable future. She was a good sport about the whole thing, despite the remonstrative looks Owen shot her whenever a doctor would go on about how lucky she was not to have torn a tendon.

Stanley was in and out, but his bouts of consciousness were filled with panic attacks and fits of incoherence. He would babble incessantly about his mother, about the island, about Tucker. Sometimes he would call for Owen, who was never very far away, and would always show up to squeeze a hand or murmur encouragement. Other times, Stan would have a fit of terror and refuse any and all help.

The doctors said only time would tell if and when Stan would be back to his normal self. Owen and Claire began to worry that that would _never_ happen.

Five days after their arrival, Stan woke up and stayed awake. His speech was strained and his movement limited. His doctors assured Owen and Claire that, considering the deliberate movement they had seen him demonstrate during his panic attacks, everything pointed to Stan having full cognitive and motor control.

"He's weak." One doctor with a bald spot informed them haughtily. As if they didn't freaking know. "He's going to need a lot of support if he's to make a full recovery."

Unfortunately for Stan, his dad took that as a sign that smothering was not only allowed, but encouraged. Stan drifted into wakefulness one morning to see Owen sitting beside his bed with a tray of hospital grub.

Stan inhaled deeply, knitting his eyebrows to focus, "Dad?"

"Oh, I see." Owen was peeling the wrapped off a plastic spoon, "Now I have the food, I'm 'Dad' again. You know, I was 'Owen' just last night when you threw your pillow at me."

Dazed, Stanley looked about him groggily, "Where's Claire?"

"Probably yelling at the hospital staff for the quality of this meal. She took one look at it and stormed out." Owen held up a spoonful of jelly and let it drip onto the tray, "To be fair, it does look kinda nasty."

The boy nestled back onto his pillow, "Please don't tell me you're gonna…oh no." He groaned as Owen scooted his chair closer to the bed, spoon in hand.

"Doc says you need your strength. So, open up." Owen quirked an eyebrow at Stan's miserable scowl, "Don't give me that shit. I swear to God, I'll pull out the airplane noises. You'll lose your hospital cred before you can blink."

"I knew you were a sadist." Stan muttered.

"Hey," Owen's tone grew softer, matching his eyes, "I missed out on spooning Gerber goop into your toothless little mouth. Just…humor me."

Blinking back tears the meds prevented him from squelching, Stan rolled his eyes. But he opened his mouth as Owen carefully fed him the contents of the tray.

Stan swallowed a mouthful of jelly with a painful wince, "Sorry for taking your bike."

His father's gaze was sharp, his tone chastising, "How about for almost getting yourself _killed_? Why don't you try being sorry for _that_?"

"Would it do the back of my head any good?"

"You got _eleven_ stitches in your skull."

"God works in mysterious ways."

"There are other parts of you to hit."

"You don't scare me." Stan cracked a knowing smile.

"Well _you_ scare _me_ , Stan!" Owen snapped, failing to see the humor, "You wanna know how many years you took off my life when you fell in that tank?"

"I know. I'm sorry. But I had to save Blue."

"You should have told me what Tucker was up to from the get-go." His father rebutted, "I'm not saying things would've gone _better_ if you'd told me, but they sure as hell couldn't have gone any worse."

Battling guilt, Stan tensed at the lecture and looked away. Owen sighed.

"Bottom line is this ain't gonna work unless we trust each other."

Stan focused on the window and said nothing. Owen set the tray down and reached into his pocket.

"So I'm gonna practice what I preach." He placed a slip of paper on the bed, "I'd be a pretty piss-poor example of a father if I didn't. Go on, take it."

Stan frowned at the item. With great effort, he lifted a hand, stuck through with IV drips, and turned it over. His eyes went wide as it settled on the numbers.

"What is it?"

"It's my compensation check from Masrani Corps." Owen explained, "Figure all those zeros plus a statement will pretty much guarantee emancipation. I'm willing to give you both those things, if it's what you really want."

There was a heavy silence after Owen's words. Father and son sat, neither one daring to speak or give any indication of their thoughts. Stan bent his forearm over his head, staring at the clouds. Owen stood and began to pace.

"Thing is," He said suddenly in an uncharacteristic burst of emotion, "I don't know if you want to do this, you know, this…this family thing. I'm not exactly _parental_ material. I don't know how to do the whole white picket fence routine. And…and I'm not the easiest person to live with. I mean, Claire can tell you that much. I'm outdated. I mean, there'd be _rules_ , you know, and…and curfews, and chores and all that shit. I completely get that you don't want that…"

"Who says I don't?"

Owen paused, carried in the current of his own self-doubt. He looked at his son, who was sitting up in bed, grey-faced and haggard.

"When my mom died," Stan sounded as though the words cost him great effort – not just physical, "I thought I'd never come home again. It was my birthday. She…she went to get ice-cream." A giant tear rolled down his cheek, and he swiped at it angrily, "She never came back."

Owen's heart broke for his son. But he knew better than to interrupt. Confessions from Stan were rarer than a heat wave in December.

"Maybe I'll never go home. To _that_ home, I mean. But with you…and Claire…" Stan looked him directly in the eye, unashamed as more tears fell, "I feel like maybe I found a new one. And I know there's no white picket fence…and that you're the kind of person who still believes in _bedtimes_."

Owen let a small, unapologetic smile surface.

"But it's okay." Stan dragged the back of his hand across his nose, "I can _educate_ you. You're not completely irredeemable."

"Don't hold your breath."

"I won't."

He didn't.

* * *

Owen found Claire perched on a bench in the hospital's garden. Winter in Miami was relative, but it still beat Isla Nublar's tepid climate. Fresh air – and the knowledge that nothing was going to jump out from the potted trees and eat them – did them both a world of good.

"How's Stan?" She asked him, patting the bench with her good arm. He joined her with a tender smile.

"Demanding loudly to be moved from the pediatrics wing. Guess his royal majesty thinks he's too old for the kiddie ward."

It was Claire's turn to smile, "Back to his old self, it seems."

"Best news I've had all week." Owen added, gripping her hand absently as the pair soaked in the peaceful atmosphere around them, "He's decided to stick around. Give me a run for my money."

"I knew he would." Claire responded, tracing a finger over Owen's rough knuckles, "So, you know what that means, right?"

He cast her subtle, worried glance, "You're ditching me for Lowery?"

She kicked him, "We need a bigger house."

The declaration surprised him. "I thought we'd taken this as far as you wanted it to go."

"I've been doing some reconsideration." Claire explained softly, "Multiple near-death experiences tend to have that effect on me."

Owen narrowed his eyes, "Choices made in the aftermath of trauma ain't always the healthiest, you know."

"It's worked for us so far." She dipped her head to meet his gaze, "Or are you saying you can survive just fine without me, Mr. Grady?"

A gentle chuckle rumbled in his chest, "You _know_ I ain't that stupid."

Claire cocked an eyebrow, "I kind of wanted you to add 'Mrs. Grady' to the end of that sentence."

Owen gave her a dumbfounded expression as the implication of her statement sank in. "Are you…"

"Oh, I'm not proposing." She clarified, "No way you're getting out of that one. I expect something unique and dazzling and dinosaur-free sometime in the near future."

A wide smile broke slowly across Owen's rugged face, "The near future, huh?"

"Maybe after we've both had a change of clothes."

"And you're sure about 'dinosaur-free'?"

"If the ring's on any kind of claw, you can just forget it."

"What about, like, a fossil ring? Fossils are cool."

"No fossils."

"What if I come in dressed as a ninja and I put the ring on the end of a samurai sword?"

"Maybe if you stab me with it afterwards and put me out of my misery."

The bickering continued long into the evening, ending with an extensive list of _don'ts_ for potential future proposals.

Owen would find a suitable _do_ at some point or another.

Sometime soon.

But not today.

Today, they had a new house to find.

FIN.

* * *

 _ **And that's a wrap, people. I have a little epilogue tucked away I might tag on. Would love to hear your final thoughts about the grand finale! One last wave of reviews to put a smile on my face :).**_


	16. It Would Just Be Weird

_I want to add a note to my fab reviewer Katarina: Thanks for your feedback! I'm very sorry that you found the final chapter an anti-climax. A good author is never conceited enough to believe their work is beyond improvement. I'm sure there are many ways that last piece could've been better, and I agree that the villains (especially Tucker) deserved a lot more suffering. But having said that, I've often found that in real life, things like death come rather suddenly. Tragedy in life is often anti-climatic. A shot to the head, the smash of a fender, a heart attack. I guess I could have sensationalized Tucker's death a little more and the Mosasaur scene a little less. I'm only human, and can't please everyone. Or even, like, a third of everyoneL. But I'm thankful that the rest of the book was enjoyable for you. Thanks for all your heartfelt reviews!_

 ** _SO: I know I said I had an epilogue for you all. That was the plan. BUT…when it started outgrowing itself, I realized what I really have are a hodgepodge of fragmented scenes which I was planning to put in the sequel. Since there will be no sequel (barring an attack by a rabid plot bunny), I decided to tag these as a few one-shots onto the end of In Loco Parentis. Hopefully these scenes will tie up any loose ends (I know some readers expressed the wish to see Stan and Owen resolve some of their deep-buried issues, or Claire get her 'unique, dinosaur-free proposal', or Owen pay Stan's principal that promised visit, and of course Claire's nephews!). So I guess these couple of chapters will drag the fun on a bit for those who still want a little extra! Don't forget to review and if you have anything you want to see in writing, let me know! - Ty_**

* * *

 _"Fine." Owen replied absently as he slowly, painfully, bent down to examine a footprint, "When we get off this rock, I will personally meet with your principal and explain about your…mitigating circumstances." Claire's fancy terminology rubbed off on the man every now and then._

 _"I'd rather be expelled." Stan sounded truly mortified at the idea, "What are you looking at?"_

 _"This footprint…it shouldn't be here." Owen straightened grimly, "And what do you mean, you'd rather be expelled? I can't talk to your principal?"_

 _"You can't come to my school." Stanley clarified coldly, "Like, ever."_

 _"Why the hell not?"_

 _"Because people at my school know who you are."_

 _"No, they don't!" Owen, who lived in a PR bubble in which Claire took the brunt of their newfound fame, found the very idea ridiculous._

 _"Trust me, they do! Face it; it would just be…weird."_

* * *

Principal Meyser's office had witnessed many a tense conversation in its day. The four walls (and three windows) had echoed the hollers and sobs of parents and students and even the occasional teacher.

For his part, Meyser considered himself a vigilante of justice. Having ruled a great number of schools with a proverbial (subject to debate) rod of iron for the better part of forty years (a number also called into question by his pupils), Meyser had no tolerance for what he considered the sickness of political correctness. In fact, the man took a certain form of pleasure in expelling, suspending, and castigating students whom he felt were a menace to society.

And right now, Stanley Simmons was at the top of that list.

Meyser pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and frowned as a throat was cleared awkwardly. He rested sour eyes on the culprit – a broad, hulking man who claimed to be the delinquent's father. Meyser had yet to be convinced.

"So..." The man began, raising his eyebrows at the floor, "This is…uh…"

"Weird?"

The whisper was a strangled whine from Stan, who was sitting beside his supposed parent and across from Principal Meyser. The boy's arms were crossed and he was slumped deeply into his chair. The grit of Stan's jaw and his downcast eyes suggested he wished said chair would swallow him whole.

As much as Meyser enjoyed seeing the normally unruffled boy in such visible discomfort, he was on a mission.

"Mr.…" Meyser glanced at the papers on his desk.

"Grady. Owen Grady. Hi." Owen extended a hand. It was shaken _very_ unenthusiastically.

"So I'm given to understand that you are Mr. Simmon's legal guardian?" Meyser queried skeptically.

"Yep. Turns out Stan here owes me his existence." Owen patted his son's shoulder. Stan bristled and his cheeks colored brightly.

"How very fortunate." Meyser muttered dryly, "In order for the school to treat with you on a legal basis, you'll need to provide some documentation proving that you are, in fact, the boy's father…"

"Oh. Yeah. If you just look through those…" Owen waved at the stack of papers he'd handed to Meyser, "My girlfriend put'em together for me. I dunno."

Meyser examined the paperwork shrewdly. More awkward seconds ticked by. He raised his eyebrows and set them down.

"Hmm. Most surprising. No resemblance whatsoever." He didn't even bother glancing up to gauge Owen's reaction, "Well, to the matter at hand. I'm afraid Mr. Simmons has missed nearly four weeks of classes due to his truancy…"

"I was _dragged_ to Central America by Child Welfare Services!" Stan broke his silence, his voice an angry growl, "Maybe you should take this up with _them_!"

"Do you have any paperwork to prove this, Mr, Simmons?" Meyser folded his hands, "Or this another of those wild flights of fancy for which you are widely known?"

"You want proof?" Stan leaped to his feet, "How about I haul you out to Isla Nublar and let a Raptor disembowel you?"

"Whoa!" Owen was genuinely surprised at the passionate outburst. Stan was always reserved and surly when it came to those outside his (extremely tiny) circle of trust. His father placed a hand on his son's arm, "Stan. Cool it!"

Meyser wanted to laugh at the weak attempt this fool was making at controlling the raging bull that was Stanley Simmons. His amusement turned to suspicion when Stan, chest heaving, slumped violently into his chair.

Stanley Simmons was a behavioral menace whose respect for authority was as dead as his unfortunate mother.

"Look, Mr. Meyser…" Owen began.

" _Principal_ Meyser."

"My son went through hell on that island. Believe me, he wasn't there by choice – his _or_ mine."

"Regardless of the circumstances, Mr. Grady, this school has a zero-tolerance policy towards truancy." Meyser retorted haughtily, "Stanley also failed to sit three very important exams, which, as per school regulations, he has therefore flunked."

"You see?" Stan hissed at his father, "I _told_ you!"

Owen's only response was to rest his hand on the incensed boy's shoulder. His eyes met Meyser's, and the aging man saw a glimmer of anger brewing beneath the composed veneer.

Good. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I'm sure if the school board were aware of Stan's reasons for missing the exams, they'd let him re-sit them." Owen offered.

"I'm afraid that's out of the question. Even if the board would consider such an… _inappropriate_ … compromise," Meyser said smugly, "the amount of classes Mr. Simmons has missed would make his chances of passing said exams completely impossible."

"I can run circles around those _troglodytes_ you call my teachers!"

Owen glared sharply at his son, "Stanley!"

"Just let me sit the exams. If I get anything less than an A on even _one_ of them, you can expel me for good!"

The phone ringing interrupted whatever vicious reply Meyser had waiting. The man gave the pair an unapologetic expression as he took the call.

The hand which Owen had placed on Stan's shoulder became a vice-grip. Stan winced, glaring at his father as Owen leaned into him with an exasperated scowl.

"Will you _please_ shut up?"

"This is a waste of time! I told you that asshole wouldn't listen."

"Okay, one more word like that and you're waiting in the lobby. Ah," Owen held up a finger to silence Stan's indignant protest, " _one_ more, Stan. I dare you."

"That was Phil Cummings from the social office." Meyser hung up the phone with a highly displeased face, "Apparently your story has been verified."

"Good ol' Phil." Owen cracked a grin, "Hey, did he say anything 'bout how his nose is doing these days? I kinda put it out of joint back in…ahem. Nevermind." He sobered after his son viciously kicked him under the desk.

"While CWS has admitted to removing Stan from school, they have not been able to justify the excessive length of his absence." Meyser continued.

"Yeah. You might wanna ask the Feds about that. Or the Costa Ricans." Owen ventured, "See, the island got put on lock-down due to an investigation…"

"If I may be frank with you, Mr. Grady," Meyer threaded his fingers together and leaned forward, "the energy you are _clearly_ willing to expend in an effort to vindicate your son would be better spent adjusting his _recalcitrant_ attitude."

" _I'm_ recalcitrant?" Stan exploded, "You were meant to retire, like, _forty_ years ago, King Tut!"

"Insolent youth!"

"Fucking has-been!"

Owen slammed a closed fist onto the desk, causing both Principal and pupil to stiffen, "Stan, go wait outside."

"So he can fill your head with poison? Yeah, no thanks!"

"Your _extensive_ list of school infractions is a matter of public record, Mr. Simmons. If your father would care to examine it, I'd be happy to oblige him. Starting, I think, with the smear campaign a few months back…"

"Hey, those flyers were an exposé!"

"Yes. On _six_ of our teachers."

"Well considering none of them can even _read_ Latin, I don't think they were that offended!"

Owen was on his feet in a flash, index finger stabbing at the door, "Out. _Now_!"

"I _hate_ you." Stan growled between grit teeth.

"I'll get over it." Owen opened the door for his son with a severe raise of his eyebrows. The teenager whirled across the threshold like an adolescent tornado.

A heavy silence hung thick over Principal Meyser's office as Stan's father shut the door. He closed his eyes, scraped a hand over his face and inhaled deeply.

"Look. I get why you don't like Stan, okay? I mean, I have _no_ illusions." Owen waved a hand at the door, frustrated, "The kid's a smart-mouthed pain in the ass."

"Mr. Grady…"

"But what you're missing," Owen continued, "is that Stan didn't ask for _any_ of this. He didn't _ask_ to get hauled off to the world's most deadly island, or to get dumped like lost baggage on the doorstep of some ex-Navy dinosaur man, and he sure as hell didn't ask to lose his mother on the night of his goddamn birthday! So maybe you could look past the fact that my son missed a couple weeks of school and cut him a little slack!"

Meyser pushed the phone away disdainfully, "Very well. And now, allow me to bring something to _your_ attention, Mr. Grady. Some simple math, perhaps." The withered man lowered his voice insidiously as he stood, "Your son is the bane of this school's existence. He has undermined authority at _every_ turn…" Here he scooped up a stick of chalk and scrawled a number on the board behind his desk. "Seventeen, Mr. Grady. That is the amount of people on the board of directors. And out of those seventeen people, there is not _one_ who will vouch for Stanley. I am recommending him for expulsion and suspending him, effective immediately. And I promise that when I am finished with him, Mr. Grady, not a single decent school in this state will even _consider_ his enrollment."

Owen's jaw set tightly, "Okay. My turn." He brushed past the vindictive principal, swiped the eraser across the board and drew a large circle with the chalk.

Meyser sneered at the number, "And what is _that_?"

Owen eyed him grimly, "The amount of fucks I give."

* * *

"You did _what_?"

"I pulled you out of school. Let's go."

"Wait, wait, wait…" Stan refused to budge from his seat outside Meyser's office, "When you say 'pulled me out of school', do you mean, like, for the _day_?"

Owen titled his head impatiently, "No, I mean, like, for _eternity_. Now can we please get going?" He shifted anxiously as a group of students thronged at an uncomfortably short distance.

"Oh my god," Stan clutched his hair and sucked in deep breaths, "I knew I shouldn't have left you two alone in there! Oh god, what am I going to do?"

At the beginning of their relationship, Owen had tried to treat Stan's teenage hysterics with patience. One month in, however, and he was running short.

"Okay. Have your breakdown walking, Junior. We gotta beat the traffic." The raptor Alpha took hold of Stan's elbow and began to march them both down the hallway, "And…your fan club." Owen added in a mutter as the crowd began to follow.

"It's the middle of the school year." The fact that Stan didn't make a snarky comment about them being _Owen's_ fan club attested to his mood. He continued to mumble to himself in a panicked voice, "I won't finish. I won't even finish this _semester_. My grades…my _life_!"

Owen smiled tightly at a group of cheerleaders as they pleaded for autographs, "Uh…sorry, ladies! Kinda on a deadline here. Some other time!"

"Another time. There won't _be_ another time for me. Not ever!" Stan was working himself into a state the like of which Owen had never seen (which was probably a good thing). "No self-respecting school within a 100 mile radius will accept me after this!"

"Well, then _this'll_ come as good news…woah!" Owen stumbled and nearly fell as a scantily-clad girl sprawled on the floor directly in his path. "Hey, are you okay?" He knelt to help the leggy blonde to her feet.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I must've tripped!" She batted her eyes dreamily as she clung to Owen's muscular forearms.

"Beat it, Christie!" Stan snapped out of his wallowing long enough to fend off Owen's groupie, " _Please_ tell me the good news is that this is all one of your sick jokes!"

"Nope." Owen steered Stan past the lobby and out the front door, coloring at the lustful expressions of the elderly women at the reception desk, "We're moving to Minnesota."

"Minnesota?!"

"Would you keep it down?"

"Why, Owen? Is there a hitchhiking dinosaur somewhere I don't know about that's gonna eat me if I yell?"

"No, but pitching a tantrum in your school's carpark definitely isn't going to get you _laid_!" Owen snapped and then regretted the words as Stan eyed him, slack-jawed. "You know…in six years." He backtracked, red-faced, "When you're…twenty-one."

His son rolled his eyes at Owen's embarrassment as they ducked into Claire's pristine BMW. The pair soaked in awkward tension as Owen pulled the car onto the freeway.

Stan finally spoke up, "Okay, just so that I _never_ have to endure this again – although watching you squirm is kind of fun – I lost it three months ago."

"Lost it? You lost _what_?"

"You know…the thing you lose when you…copulate."

" _Oh_!" The young man's father held up a palm, revolted, " _Why_ , Stan? Seriously? You could've just left me in the dark!"

Stan flushed, "I thought you'd be proud!"

"Proud? You're _fifteen_ years old!" Owen was disgusted, "I mean, I mean…five years ago, you were _ten_!"

"That logic is _ridiculous_."

" _You're_ ridiculous! You're a _baby_ , for God's sake!"

The teenager's eyebrows knit, "I am _not_ a baby!"

"Look, I became a dad _one_ month ago. I am _not_ ready to be a grandfather!"

"Oh, so this is all about _you_? You're so _selfish_!"

"Who was the girl, Stan?"

"She was this girl I met in the care home after…"

"Care home? When were you in a _care_ _home_?"

"While I was waiting for the court case with my grandparents to finish! Anyway, this girl, she'd spent the last five years slumming it with this crowd of crackheads who she'd fence stuff for sometimes…why are you turning off here?"

"Change of plan." Owen pulled off at the nearest exit, "We're going to the hospital."

"What? Why?"

"To get you tested for chlamydia. And insanity!"

At the idea of returning to whitewashed walls and needles, Stan began to panic, "Dad! I was joking! I'm…I'm pure as driven snow! Seriously, no hospital! Come on!"

"Nice try, pal. You're getting shots…and…and _pamphlets_."

"Pamphlets?"

"You know, those flier things in the lobby about STDs and teenage pregnancy or whatever."

"Ugh!" Stan clutched his head, "I was messing with you, okay? I'm a virgin! Now can we please go back to my school and tell Meyser you suffered from a bout of temporary insanity brought on by PTSD or something? Ow!"

Owen returned the hand he'd just whacked Stan's shoulder with to the steering wheel, "Wasn't funny. And, no."

Stan rubbed his afflicted shoulder with mounting frustration, "Owen. It's _February_. You can't pull me of out of school in February! I have to finish the school year!"

"You can finish in another school." Owen replied evenly as they hit a traffic light.

"You don't understand…"

"This isn't a debate. You're not going back there. End of story."

An old woman with a trolley bag was crossing the road with shaky, measured steps. The light turned green before she'd even hit the halfway point. Cars revved their engines and honked impatiently.

Owen kept the engine hot and waved the woman on with an encouraging smile. The Audi behind him started kissing his bumper with its headlights. Owen ignored it.

"Look." Stan heaved several breaths, " _Dad_."

"Don't say it like that."

"Say what like what?"

"'Dad'," Owen adopted a nasal squeak, "Like I'm some kinda fungus."

Owen was missing the point completely. Stan forced himself to reevaluate his strategy.

"Even if you could find a school who'd take me on right now, I'd probably have to repeat a grade. And I have no intention of doing so!"

"Just let us worry about that. Claire's already sweet-talkin' some schools in Minnesota."

"Private schools, if I know Claire!"

"Maybe. So?"

"So I don't want to go to private school! The kids there are weird!"

Owen cast his child a wry look in the rearview mirror, "I think you'll fit right in."

He would. He was a fifteen year-old who actually _cared_ about grades. Plus he had a thirty-six year old ex-Navy, ex-dinosaur trainer for a father and Claire Dearing of Masrani fame as a potential stepmother.

Stan slumped in his seat, horrified at the lump in his throat. He felt his academic future crumbling around him, and it frightened him.

"Look," His father turned to him as rain began to patter on the windshield, "I told you how this was gonna be from the start. You're a smart kid, I'll give you that, but there are some things you don't get to call the shots on."

They hit another set of lights. An obese man straddling a buckled scooter ran the red, flipping off oncoming traffic as he narrowly avoided death.

A moment of tense, angry silence ushered in a huff and a suspicious sniff.

Owen glanced sharply at his son as he worked the wipers, "Are you…crying?"

"No. Stupid." Stan swiped at his face, twisting towards the window and away from Owen's incredulous stare.

They drove past the boulevard, dodging the lunch-hour traffic queuing round the block from Wimpy's. More rain. More sniffing.

"Okay, you are _definitely_ crying."

"I'm _not_!" Stan insisted, desperately trying to stop the flow of salty tracks down his face, "I'm just…I have a cold, damn it!"

"Stan, you're freaking me out." Owen shot him a worried look. Stan _never_ cried. "What happened?"

"Nothing _happened_!" The last word was an erratic sob. Stan was losing control, "Just butt out, okay?"

Shocked and concerned by the sudden (and very uncharacteristic) emotional breakdown, Owen ran through a list of possible triggers. If he based said list off his animal behavioral studies…well, he wasn't far off.

 _He's not hungry. Kid cleared two plates of huevos rancheros this morning. Can't be tired. He slept till almost noon! Is he sick?_

Stan's red eyes narrowed as Owen's palm found his temple. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just…checking something."

"Oh my god!" Stan squirmed furiously out of his reach, "Don't you _dare_ start playing Mother Hen!"

 _Mother Hen_. Owen grasped another straw, "Are you upset about your mom? Is that it?"

"I am _not_ upset!" Each word was strained, screamed, "Although 'my mom' _would_ be if she knew my entire academic future just got flushed down the toilet!"

"Stan," His father clutched the wheel tighter and forced a breath through his nose, "If this whole meltdown is about that stupid school of yours, I swear to god…"

"You're ruining my life! Don't you get it? My grades will never recover from this. _I_ will never recover from this! W…what are you doing?" Stan blinked and stammered as Owen punched his indicator light.

"Pulling over."

"Why?"

"So I can _focus_ while I _yell_ at you!"

"Oh, great. Yell at _me_." His son threw his hands up, his face a snotty, teary mess. He looked very young and very un-Stan-like. "It's your favorite pastime, anyway!"

Owen said nothing until the car was safely on a shoulder. The smell of grease wafted from a taco joint a few feet off. He twisted in his seat to face his son.

"Listen to me. I know how much your grades mean to you, and I'm proud of you for it, I really am…"

"Then why are you doing this to me?"

"Because good grades don't mean anything to guys like Meyser!" Owen insisted, "You remember what I told you back on Isla Nublar?" Owen raised his eyebrows and gentled out his tone, "When you tried to ask me what to do about Tucker?"

Stan shifted sullenly, "I was wasted. So, no."

"I said people have to do what they think is right, and then deal with the consequences. And when you asked me how I knew what the right thing was, I said I followed my instincts." Owen placed an arm around the back of Stan's seat, his fingers brushing his son's shoulders, "I told you I don't say things just to hear myself talk. You're not going back to that school. And if the consequence of that is you hating me for it, well…I'll take it like a man."

"I don't hate you." Stan muttered through grit teeth, the words costing him effort.

Owen grinned a little inside.

That was as good as an 'I love you' from Stanley Simmons.

* * *

 _ **Hope this brightened someone's day somewhere. This epilogue stuff is mainly just for my amusement and to tie up loose ends. Review, and if you have a prompt you'd like me to work on, lay it on me, people! - Tyler**_


	17. Agua Caliente

_Review from Belen, November 24_ _th_ _, 2015: "Now that the story is ending, perhaps you can allow Owen to relax and actually enjoy his son and his new family. With all the things that happened to them, it would be fun to see a more laid back, happy Owen."_

 ** _Firstly, Happy New Year. Sorry this took so long. I played around with it for ages before I finally decided to just get it out there. This was the best I could do. Hope y'all enjoy it enough to pardon any errors. I already have a few more requests to get through but new ones are always welcome. Leave me some love! - Ty_**

* * *

Claire sighed at the large array of color samples she'd spread across the coffee table of their rented home. Upon their return from Isla Nublar, she and Owen had packed up their L.A penthouse and moved to San Diego so Stan could finish the school year – a plan which was now scrapped since Owen had pulled him out of school.

Good thing they already had plans approved for construction on the Grady ranch in Minnesota.

Owen had insisted on giving Claire free reign on the project. The family home on the ranch was collapsed, and Owen's only request was that its foundations be included in the new house plan. Despite being head-hunted by massive global companies, and stalked relentlessly by the press day and night, they had decided to use their current unemployment (they couldn't quit Masrani Corps fast enough) to focus on rebuilding their lives.

A new house seemed the perfect way to start.

"Okay." Claire breathed, returning her attention to the color palettes, "Focus. A month ago, you were fighting off dinosaurs. This is…" She sighed dismally, "much more difficult, for some reason."

The sound of the front door opening made Claire jump. The color palettes fluttered around her feet like a scattered rainbow.

"Whoa." Owen had his arms full of shopping bags and outdoor gear, "Little jumpy this morning, aren't we?"

"More like _every_ morning." Claire confessed with a sigh, "I…didn't hear you leave."

"Oh I'm sorry," He hefted the bags onto the counter, "didn't you get my note? I left it on the thingy by the phone…"

"Just…" She held up a hand, not willing to give herself more rope in a conversation where Owen could clearly hang her, "never mind."

"That's right. Where's Stan?"

"In bed."

"Still?" It was approaching four PM.

"I tried to get him to eat something about an hour ago. I think he muttered something akin to 'what's the point' into his pillow…but I can't be sure. It was very muffled."

Owen nodded, patted his girlfriend on the shoulder, and headed to his son's room. The white-paneled door was still slightly ajar – likely an attempt at air-circulation from Claire.

The fact that Stan hadn't gotten up to slam it shut spoke volumes about his state. The teenager had been throwing himself a protracted pity party ever since the incident with Owen and Meyser.

Claire had pushed the need for understanding and space. She'd even quoted Owen something from the shiny new adolescent psychology books lining her office shelf. Claire argued that they needed to exercise patience and restraint and allow Stan to process his emotions.

To his credit, Owen had totally gone with that idea. For about forty-eight hours. During which his son had _literally_ stuck to the confines of his room and refused any form of sustenance. (Owen had secretly caught Stan tiptoeing to the bathroom and eating Cheerios at three in the morning, but he'd been too relieved to say anything).

Still, forty eight hours was more than enough time to recover from the not-so-traumatic experience of being pulled from school. In Owen's opinion, at least. He decided it was high time Stan got his ass in gear.

He rapped his knuckles against the door, once. It was a courtesy knock.

"Stan, I'm comin' in. Better stash the weed and get decent."

The silence which greeted him was as thick as the gloom hanging in the air. Owen pushed into the room. Piles of clean laundry, pressed and folded by Lorna (the housekeeper) sat untouched atop the desk beside several plates of equally untouched food. The bedroom smelt like fabric softener and stale cheese.

Undeterred by the mop of shaggy brown hair planted face-down on the comforter, Owen flopped down onto the foot of the bed.

He bounced slightly, testing the mattress. Stan grunted into his pillow as he was jostled.

"You know, I think your bed's got better suspension than Claire's car."

"Go away."

"But I just got comfy." Owen protested, kicking off his Jeep boots and settling further into the springy down of Stan's memory foam. "Think I'll just nod off for a while. Y'know, seeing as how old people need their naps 'n all. You mind if I crash here?"

Another groan. Louder, this time. "Leave me _alone_!"

"Come on, Stan." Owen patted his son's pajama-clad thigh, "Seriously, can you even _breathe_ with your face in that thing?"

"No. M'dead."

"Well, that explains the smell."

Stan's head shot up, ruddy skin and red-rimmed eyes. Bingo.

"There's no _smell_!"

"Sure there is. It's like…hormones and tears. Now, come on. Enough moping. Up you get." Owen's hand moved to Stan's backside. The next pat was hard enough that Stan actually yelped a little and jolted upright.

"Did you just…" He stammered, red-faced with embarrassment.

Owen blinked innocently as he stuffed a pillow behind his head.

" _So_ not cool." Stan muttered, kicking dirty clothes out of his path as he headed to the door, "I'm telling Phil!"

"Tell him I miss our little talks." Owen crooned as his son splashed water on his face in the adjoining bathroom, "He never calls me anymore. I'm feeling neglected."

Stan's huff could be heard over the running water, "What do you _want_?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm peachy." The man's folded arms were perched against the doorframe, "But then I remembered that _someone_ wanted s'mores a while back. And between all the puking and the impromptu Baywatch-meets-Jaws scene, it didn't really work out."

"You dragged me out of bed to eat s'mores?"

"Nope. To go camping. And I didn't exactly have to drag you. You shot outta bed faster than a jackrabbit."

"Only because you _hit_ me!"

"Yeah, and if you ain't dressed and ready to go in half an hour, I'm gonna hit you _again_."

Claire rolled her eyes at Owen as he finished yelling over his shoulder and marching back into the kitchen at the same time. The man had finally learned to multitask.

And it _only_ took an estranged lovechild's entrance into their lives to make it happen.

She raised her eyebrows pointedly as Owen began to rifle through his gear.

"So, um…when were you planning to consult with me about your father-son excursion day?"

" _Two_ days." He clarified as he checked a set of poles, "And you're coming with."

"Oh…that's…sweet, but…" Claire scrambled frantically for an excuse, _any_ excuse, "I really have my work cut out for me with the house project, and…" She squealed as Owen wrapped his arms around her thighs and lifted her off her feet.

"What are you doing?"

"Just facilitating eye contact for our _consultation_." He smiled smugly. "All this work you've been doing has you _way_ too strung out. What you need is some time in the great outdoors!"

"I _think_ we've all filled our yearly quota for fresh air and sunshine, Owen!" She snapped, wriggling in his hold.

"I second that!" The call echoed from the bathroom.

"No one cares!" Owen yelled in reply, "You two vampire couch-potatoes are coming whether you like it or not!"

* * *

It turned out that the only person who _actually_ didn't care was Owen. Claire and Stan cared a great deal, and objected loudly to an impromptu camping excursion. And yet, somehow, they found themselves thirty minutes (and a good deal of arguing) later in the car en route to the highway.

"Come on!" Owen cranked up the radio enthusiastically, "Why am I the only one excited about this?"

"Because you're the only one who wanted to go?" Stan grumbled from the backseat he was sharing with Claire's myriad of 'essentials'.

"I don't know." Claire was browsing the brochure her beloved had thrown at her, "I'm kind of liking the look of this indoor therapeutic spa."

"Well, you're gonna like this even more." Owen beamed, "Agua Caliente just built a brand new luxury cabin which, even though it was completely booked until next Christmas, _this_ guy managed to get for the weekend!"

She coiled her arm around his bicep with a coy smile, "And that's why you're a keeper."

A sour grunt sounded from the back, "Not exactly the adjective I'd use."

"Keeper's a noun! Oh! Boom! In your face!" Owen slapped the wheel, triumphant at having one-upped Stan in the grammar department.

"Actually, in the context Claire just used it, it's not. It's not even a word."

"Yes, it is!"

"Whatever, Stan! It's totally a word!"

Stan's smug smile met Claire and Owen's bewildered eyes in the rearview, "Only if your reference is Urban Dictionary."

"Is 'swirlie' a word, Mr. Grammar Nazi? Cause you might wanna _reference_ exactly what I'm gonna do to you at the next pit stop if you keep up the…"

"So, Stan," Claire interrupted Owen's token threat, "have you ever been camping before?"

"My school made us take a trip to Dos Picos last year. We all had to sleep on the floor in one cabin like some kind of Peruvian Tribe."

"My god, the horror."

Claire slapped Owen's arm, "Did you get to do anything interesting?" She directed the question at Stan.

"We had to go hiking. It was raining and miserable. And there was a 'youth group area'. That was the _worst_."

"You mean a whole section of the campsite dedicated specifically to you? Disgusting. Claire, I think I'll go complain."

"They had a _game_ night!" Stan burst out, as though that were the worst possible occurrence known to man, "And then this youth pastor guy named Bob had us watch this freaky skit about two teens who have pre-marital sex and go to hell. And then they handed out _promise_ rings!"

Owen's fake gasp sounded again, "You mean, they weren't advocating teenage promiscuity? Pastor Bob is going _down_!"

"They tried to make us fly-fish!"

"I'm guessing they failed."

"How many teenagers do you know who play _Horseshoes_?"

Owen chuckled, "Well, _one_ , at least."

"I did _not_ participate." His son's scorching reply lapsed into silence as he put on his headphones, "Just…wake me up when it's over!"

"Oh I'll wake you up, alright!"

"Owen!" Claire pinned his arm as it snaked into the backseat (and Stan kicked at it while scooting out of reach). "For God's sakes, if you two keep this up, I am pulling over!"

"Uh… _I'm_ driving?" Owen reminded her.

"Not anymore, you're not! Pull over and give me the keys!"

* * *

After a long, harrowing drive – during which Claire drove the car and Owen drove Claire crazy –the Grady-Dearing-Simmons group arrived at Agua Caliente County Park.

The luxury cabin did not disappoint. In fact, it was so cushy that, upon examining its plush interior, Claire rewarded Owen with a generous kiss and Stan graciously commented that it 'sure beat Dos Picos'.

"From your description, Dos Picos ain't that hard to beat." Owen had pointed out.

"Thank you!" Stan had gestured his appreciation of the acknowledgement before his father had time to take it back.

After a squabble about dinner arrangements (Claire had brought ready meals, Owen wanted to spit-roast a leg of something over a fire, and Stan wanted to know why there was no takeaway available), Claire had had enough. Leaving the two to their bickering, she filled up the outdoor Jacuzzi, poured herself a generous glass of bubbly and donned the Armani one-piece she'd bought a year ago and had yet to debut.

The clear night sky greeted her as she slid into the soothing froth of the tub. The hot water soothed her recently-healed elbow, which had begun to ache slightly with the cold. Stars shone in proud, bright clusters above the treetops. Rebel wisps of clouds ghosted around the naked moon.

It was a glorious sight – marred only by the sudden swoop of a broad-winged shadow.

Claire felt every muscle in her body tense as she gripped the edges of the hot tub. Her chest heaved and she fought to regulate her heartbeat as it ran amuck.

 _It's not a Pterodactyl, you idiot._

It wasn't. Claire blew out the breath she'd been holding, shook her head at her own foolishness. She knew this particular brand of foolishness might be too deeply ingrained after two rounds with Isla Nublar.

"You alright?"

"Mm hmm." She smiled and cupped her champagne flute in her hand, "I would have invited you to join me, but you looked like you were having too much fun teasing Stanley."

Owen had switched his shirt and jeans for a pair of board shorts (Claire had never managed to eradicate that part of his wardrobe) and a beer. "Well, who the hell asks if there's a _sushi_ joint in a county park?"

"Your son, apparently." Claire shifted her seating as her boyfriend's impressive frame slid into the bubbling water beside her.

"And he had the nerve to say _I_ need educating."

They enjoyed the white noise of nature, the steam from the water evaporating into the chilly night air, the stillness. The knowledge that nothing prehistoric and sharp-toothed was lurking in the woods around them was by far the most pleasurable notion.

Claire's feet floated onto Owen's knees and she leant her head back against the arm he stretched out obligingly. She felt her whole body sigh.

"I could get used to this."

"Why don't you put a hot tub in the house plans?"

"I put _two_ hot tubs in the house plans."

"That's my girl."

The faint hooting of an owl echoed through the trees. A lone bat fluttered overhead. The champagne filled Claire with a delightful buzz and she nestled closer to Owen, wondering when (or if) she'd ever felt so relaxed.

Then she noticed the way Owen's finger ran circles around the mouth of his beer bottle. Claire knew that tell. She sat up slowly and made eye contact.

"Owen Grady," Claire stated flatly, "if you think a _hot tub_ is a suitable setting for a _proposal_ …"

"What?" He squinted, offended, "No! I…where the hell did _that_ come from?"

"Well, _something_ is bothering you, and if it's not that, than what is it?"

"Well, right now it's the fact you think I'd be that tacky!"

 _Um…Ninja sword?_ "Alright," Claire forced a calming breath, "I'm sorry I _accused_ you of proposing. Now will you please stop playing the martyr? What is going on?"

In the beginning stages of their relationship, Owen would fend off Claire's inquiries with stereotypical masculine pride. Claire always joked the he spent the first six months of their life together in a perpetual state of 'fine'. But time – and trust – had finally brought out Owen's most-cherished quality: honesty. It was Claire's highest-touted value as well.

They didn't hide things from each other anymore. The truth – even when it hurt – was a key ingredient to the health of their relationship.

Owen sighed, glanced over his shoulder at the cabin, and fidgeted. Claire began with her most pressing question.

"Why are we _really_ here, Owen? And, if you say this has anything to do with dinosaurs…."

"Relax. No dinosaurs involved. It's just…" He was struggling, "some business had to get taken care of back in town and I didn't want Stan to be around for it."

"What do you mean? What business?"

"Corine." Owen illuminated, "The lease on her house was up a few months ago. The landlord was a solid guy, kept all her stuff there, didn't mess with it. But he called me the other day. Seems he's got a few offers on the place."

Claire nodded slowly, "So…he wants you to buy the house?"

"No. Just take some stuff, you know…half of Stan's clothes are still over there. And photos. Shit like that."

Silence. Then, "You don't think Stan might want to pick out what he'd like to keep?"

"I'm taking all of it. Keeping it in boxes in the shed for him." Owen rubbed at his face, "He's not ready for that, Claire."

"Shouldn't that be up to him?"

"Maybe."

Her voice dropped softly, "Maybe Stan's not the only one who isn't ready?"

He eyed her sharply, "Corine and I weren't exactly soulmates."

"That isn't what I meant." Claire assured him, "I meant maybe you're worried you won't be able to handle watching Stan go through that."

Owen's face turned hard, and Claire expected a hand to wave in dismissal at any moment.

He didn't insult her with his denial. But he did return his mouth to his beer and his eyes to the stars.

The air crackled with tension.

* * *

Claire slept in until nine AM the next morning. It was a record for her. But she'd drank a little too much bubbly than she was accustomed to the night before in an effort to ignore the wall that had sprung up between her and Owen. He hadn't said more than a few dutiful lines since their hot tub conversation – unless you counted him finding Stan awake at three in the morning on his tablet. Claire had heard Owen tell the kid to go to sleep with just a _little_ too much bark.

Predictably, Owen was up (and gone) and Stan wasn't. Claire pulled her copper locks, wavy and tumbled from the chlorine, into a stub of a ponytail and stalked onto the porch. The winter sunshine greeted her, bouncing off the white desert sand.

She jumped, startled, as the porch door opened. Stan stumbled out with all the grace (and manner) of a grizzly bear. His hair stuck wildly in every direction yet still managed to shroud his eyes as he threw himself one of the plush lounge chairs.

"You're up early." Claire commented in genuine surprise.

"Your _boyfriend_ said if I wasn't fresh as a daisy come morning, he'd feed my tablet to a coyote." Stan mumbled from underneath the arm he'd thrown across his face.

Her eyebrows rose comically, "I see. And this is your best rendition of Morning Glory?"

The young man's bare feet rested on the porch rail, "M'up, aren't I?" He snagged Owen's Stetson and put the hat over his face, muttering something about it being 'too damn sunny'.

Claire thought it was cute Stan felt comfortable enough to appropriate his father's belongings, "All that murky Isla Nublar weather has spoiled you, Stan."

"Yeah, this place is a real let-down. No high-speed chases or brushes with death..."

"It's like I picked it on purpose!"

Owen's call alerted them to his presence. The man was stalking up the plank path to their cabin, four sea bass and a halibut dangling from his fist.

Claire found it hilarious that Stan's feet hit the floor. The teenager tossed Owen's Stetson back onto the window sill and straightened in his chair as his father climbed the steps.

"Morning, sunshine!"

"Don't call me sunshine."

"I was talkin' to _her_." Owen pulled Claire in for a kiss. He smelt like earth and musk cologne and…

"Are those…fish?" She crinkled her nose.

"Yep. Got'em off some old angler a couple miles from the camp." He said wistfully, as though mourning the fact the fish were not his prizes. "Wait…you like fish, right?"

 _Fine. I'll talk to Stanley_.

She smiled, "Yes, Owen. I like fish."

 _Thank you._

"Good. 'Cause we're havin' these babies for lunch. You." He released his hold on Claire to point at Stan as he headed for the front door, "You just got drafted for K.P duty, my friend."

"Oh, _what_?" His son protested, "If you think I'm helping you with those things, you are _so_ misguided!"

His father's eyed narrowed, "Oh I'm sorry, Stanley. Are you too tired? 'Cause I remember a certain someone ranting on at three in the morning about how the ontogeny of sleep is a relic from a bygone age of…"

"Fine! I'll scale the damn fish!" Unwilling to allow Owen his triumph, Stan stomped huffily into the cabin, "But I'm _not_ gutting them!"

* * *

"I can't believe you made me gut them." Stan grumbled, hands (which he had scrubbed raw) tucked into his jeans pockets.

"It was them or your tablet." Owen tossed more kindling onto the fire he'd got going, "I catch you using that thing past the witching hour again, and it's getting marinated."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I'm thinking paprika."

Stan scoffed, his curiosity getting the better of him as he shuffled to Owen's side. He'd never seen anybody actually start a fire from scratch before. He'd secretly watched as his father dug out a pit, filled it with dry wood and kindling and encircled it with stones.

Stan has expected the lighter to come out at that point, or the matches, but no. Bear Grylls the second had actually rubbed sticks. And he'd seemed to enjoy it, as well.

"You know where Claire's at?"

"She went to try out that therapeutic spa."

Owen grunted. He piled stones on either side of the fire, "Pass me that grill?"

Stan complied. He titled his head as Owen balanced the cast iron grate on each stone pillar.

"Why didn't you just use the freaking stove?"

"Not the same."

"Why not?" Stan wanted to know.

Owen squinted at the smoke as he tossed the fish onto the grill, "There's just somethin' about enjoying the fruit of your own two hands. My dad was real big on all this stuff. Used to take me fishing and hunting and camping every summer."

Stan squatted beside his dad, tossed a twig into the fire. "My mom tried to make me go to Camp Balboa a couple times. She even signed me up for the BSA one time, but I hated the idea so much, I ran away from home."

Owen frowned, "When was this?"

"I was ten, I think."

"How far'd you get?"

"Got on a bus to Coronado, but I chickened out after the first five miles."

"Well, how'd you get back?"

"Hitched a ride with this old guy who was trucking stuff. Man, did he have some stories."

"He's not the only one." Owen looked decidedly unimpressed, "Seems the more I know, the more I know I _don't_ know."

"Or don't _want_ to know." Stan offered sagely. His father's scowl deepened.

"Hand me the tongs."

Stan did so. He wasn't prepared for the rather ungentle tap of said tongs to the top of his head.

"What was _that_ for?"

"Coronado."

Stan rolled his eyes, "You hit like a girl."

"You ever pull a stunt like that on my watch, I'll sic Claire on you. _She_ hits like a girl."

He watched as Owen prodded the fish, checked their undersides and shifted their position. The smell wafted through the air, pleasant and appetizing.

"You guys were acting even weirder than usual last night. You fighting or something?"

Owen almost informed the kid it was none of his business. But the flicker in Stan's tone reminded him that he and Claire were the only semblance of security his son had right then. A crack or shudder of any kind in the foundations were just cause for worry in the eyes of a fifteen year-old.

"Claire and I've kinda gotten used to lots of noise, and, y'know…screaming. All this peace and quiet stuff kinda puts us on edge sometimes."

Stan's eyebrows knit, "Then why'd you want to come out _here_?"

It was the million dollar question. Owen sighed and handed his son the tongs.

"Here. You flip'em."

"Okay." The word was hesitant. Stan gingerly took the tongs from his father and poked delicately at the fish. He managed to flip the halibut. The flames spat as the rich oils dripped through the grate.

"So…we need to talk."

Stan froze at his dad's tone, "Last time you said that, we were on Isla Nublar."

"Were we?"

"I don't want to talk about them _again_ , Dad!" The young man's growl was fierce.

"Relax. I don't mean about your grandparents." Owen reassured him. He hated the way his son's nerves stood on edge at the mere thought. "That's a conversation for another time."

"Another time like _never_!"

"Okay! I get it. Here." Owen aided his son in flipping the sea bass. Agent Fisher had left a standing offer to reopen the case, but Owen was loathe to impose that kind of pressure on Stan when the kid was still getting over his mother's death and the events of Isla Nublar.

"So?" Stan prompted after a long stretch of silence.

"So what?"

"So what do you want to talk about?"

Owen wasn't proud of himself for backing off at the last minute. But he did it anyway. "Uh…cars. I…wanted to talk to you about…cars." He winced inwardly at the pathetic-sounding fallback.

"Cars? Why the hell would you want to…wait a second." Stan's eyes widened under his mess of bangs, "Are you thinking of buying me a _car_?"

Owen cursed the moment of dumbfounded panic that caused him to leap upon Stan's query. "Yes." He forced out the words with a somber expression, "Yes, I am, son."

"Oh my god!" The young man let out an exuberant whoop and threw himself at Owen. It was the first genuine embrace between the pair and Stan had _actually_ initiated it.

Stan squeezed his father furiously, "Oh my god…I'm not even joking. I could cry _right_ now!"

"Me too." Owen numbly patted the boy's back, exhilarated and disgusted and wondering just how the hell they'd gotten here. Matters were only made worse when he caught sight of Claire standing on the pathway, in a bathrobe and bare feet. Her folded arms and arching brow suggested she'd witnessed the entire thing – and was none too pleased.

"Claire!" Stan broke free of Owen and leaped to his feet, "Claire, I'm getting a car!"

"I know!" She gave the youth a genuine smile which frosted into place as she looked at her partner, "Honey, should I tell Stan what kind of car you're buying him?"

Warning lights flashed. Now _Owen_ was on his feet, "Uh…you know, I kinda want to keep it a surprise. I mean…"

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm sure if _I_ was getting a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport," She smiled acidly, "I'd want to know about it!"

"A _what_ , a…are you _kidding_ me right now?" Owen couldn't help an incredulous slip of the tongue at her proclamation.

"This is surreal." Stan was running his hands through his hair, fingers trembling in excitement. "I can't believe it. This is the best! You're the _best_!" He pointed at his father, who forced a strained smile, before running for the cabin.

"Hey, where you going?" Owen blurted out desperately. This wasn't happening.

"To google my car!"

As soon as the cabin door banged shut, Claire got a face-full of angry Owen.

"A Bugatti Veyron Super Sport? Are you insane? That's, like, the fastest road car in the _world_!"

"And yet somehow safer than a couple of dusty boxes."

Owen shook his finger, mouth clenched shut as he struggled for words to express his frustration. Claire merely leaned back and appraised him with a smug expression.

After several failed attempts at a comeback, Owen pointed at her fiercely, "I hate it when you're right."

"Do you, Owen?" Claire's nose crinkled, "I think we both know you that sometimes you need a little…shall we say _push_ …in the right direction."

Her smug tone was too much for Owen, "A push, huh?"

She raised her hands, "Owen, don't you dare…"

In a moment, she was over his shoulder, caught between laughter and shrieks of protest. Claire was dumped, bathrobe and all, unceremoniously in the now-stagnant hot tub. But she had long been wise to her boyfriend's master scheme, and precisely as Owen tossed her in, she wrapped her legs in a vice-grip around his torso.

He toppled in beside her. They both surfaced with good-natured laughs and scuffles.

When the play fight had ceased, Owen wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin atop her head.

"I'll tell Stan when we get home."

She patted his arm, "It's the right thing to do."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

Claire turned in his embrace, cupping the nape of Owen's neck in her palm, "Easy's never been our style."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Owen squeezed her hand with a crooked smile, "'Cause _you're_ telling Stan the truth about his car."

* * *

 _ **Leave me some feedback, you!**_


	18. Officer Barbrady & Baby Three Horns (1)

_**This one's for Katarina Aguilar, who has patiently been awaiting a Zach and Gray cameo. Kat, I know you wanted a baby dinosaur stowaway. I may have stretched the bounds of artistic liberties to get that one in here, but I did it. If it's a little far-fetched, well, it's a favor to a fan! You know you're my girl! - Ty**_

* * *

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since they'd reluctantly come down from the natural high that was Agua Caliente. Fourteen days since they'd returned to their rented home and began the arduous task of boxing and bubble-wrapping everything in sight. Minnesota wasn't exactly going to grow legs and take the party to their doorstep.

Yes, it had been two weeks since Claire and Owen's hot-tub confession session. And one week since Owen had manned up and shown Stan the contents of the garage.

Jokes had been made about a walk to the woodshed. Claire had watched from the window as father and son stood, hands in their pockets and feet scuffing at the concrete, overshadowed by stacks of boxes.

It had surprised her when, after a brief exchange of mutters with a highly uncomfortable Owen, Stan had excused himself and headed back inside the house. No door slamming. No yelling. No tears.

Owen had stayed outside for a while, face knit in brooding before he'd shut the garage door. Stan had sat down to play X-box. He'd seemed a lot less ruffled than his father.

When Claire had asked her boyfriend how things had gone, he'd replied "He told me to do whatever I wanted with the stuff. Said he didn't care."

The statement had seemed to worry Owen as much as it worried Claire.

In the week that followed, both she and Owen kept wary eyes on Stan, wondering if and when the young man might break down. Nothing. Stan was his usual surly self. Not one caustic remark more or less. Something was off, though. Claire made several diplomatic attempts at penetrating Stan's invisible body armor. Every veiled inquiry was given a distinctively cold shoulder.

Just when Claire began wondering if an intervention should be staged – an idea Owen (being a man and therefore, in Claire's mind, emotionally challenged) vehemently opposed – she began noticing that Stan was suddenly absent in the afternoons. He'd leave the house on the pretext of meeting friends. That was hardly unusual for a teenager – unless you counted the fact Stan rarely left his bed, let alone the house. What was odd was that every night, Stan came home later (and quieter) than the night before.

What bothered Claire the most was that her and Owen's roles were suddenly reversed. She found herself snapping at Stan for coming home at ten o'clock at night without answering his phone, while Owen seemed content to give his son a wide berth.

"He's a kid." Owen would remind her, "I wasn't exactly clock-watching when I hung out with my friends at his age!"

"Owen," Claire would, in turn, issue a reminder, "You were fifteen in the _nineties_. And your friends were cows."

"One. _One_ was a cow!" That comment never failed to irritate the man. On their first visit to his mother, the woman had foisted Owen's entire life in photos on Claire.

She'd found it _enlightening_ , to say the least.

It was a blustery night in San Diego when the shit hit the fan. Things were proceeding largely as (the new) normal. Claire was taking a break from sorting through her walk-in closet (she'd never realized just how many dresses she actually owned). Owen was half-heartedly peeling potatoes for dinner while shouting at Tom Brady on ESPN.

Stan was out. With friends. At the movies. Had been for going on five hours now.

 _Which movie? Which friends_? Claire had no idea. She knew Owen didn't, either. He was too busy tip-toeing around the situation.

And then the doorbell rang. Repeatedly. Insistently.

"Honey?" Claire yelled as she wrestled with a thicket of tangled necklaces in her jewelry box, "Can you get that?"

"In a second." The grunt wasn't too promising.

The bell persisted.

"It's probably Stan!" The thought filled her with relief. It was just going on seven PM and a giant cloudburst had just exploded over San Diego. She didn't want Stan out in that rain.

She didn't want Stan out, period.

Claire continued the battle with her jewelry, picking at an impossible knot in a pricy silver chain. She heard Owen drag his feet to the door, and then paused at the muffled, unfamiliar voices echoing down the hall.

Frowning at her cell phone agenda and confirming they weren't due any visits, Claire made her way to the front room. She wasn't prepared for what she saw.

Stan was standing at the threshold, water dripping off his body like a wet cat. He was flanked on either side by local police officers.

"We're very sorry to bother you, sir." The female officer looked like she was trying to smother an obvious celeb crush in professionalism, "But, do you know this boy?"

"Uh...apparently not." Owen responded, bewildered, as he eyed Stan up and down. The boy was glaring at the carpet from under the soaked hood of his sweater.

The officer exchanged a look with her dough-faced male colleague, "Excuse me?"

"I mean, yeah. He's my son." Owen quickly recovered, as Claire stood beside him and resisted the urge to wrap Stan in a fluffy blanket. "Why? What'd he do?"

That was Owen Grady parenting in a nutshell. Claire kind of, sort of loved him for it most of the time. She wasn't too sure Stan shared her sentiments.

"We caught him trespassing in a private-owned house over on Laurel Street."

"Laurel Street?" Claire's eyebrows rose. No wonder Stan was gone so long.

"Trespassing?" Owen's query reminded her there was a bigger issue all of a sudden.

"Yes. Trespassing. Illegally, I might add! One of the neighbors called us when they saw him jump the fence." The male officer huffed, "We were going to take him downtown, but the owner of the house said he declined to press charges."

"Alright." Owen said warily. Silence reigned for a long, horrible moment before he continued, "So, can he come inside now, or…?"

"Stanley's free to go - for now. _This_ time, that is." The officer released his grip on Stan's arm, and the young man sent fierce glares in her direction before he stormed into the house.

Claire tried not to wince at the puddles of water on her hardwood floor – or the way Stan shrugged her off as she attempted to touch him.

"We're letting Stanley off with a warning." The woman officer seemed pleased with herself, "Mr. Grady…you are Mr. Grady, I assume?"

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, that's me." Owen said absently. Claire rolled her eyes inwardly.

 _Here it comes_.

"I know Stanley's only been in your custody a couple of months. I'm sure it hasn't been easy…" The woman batted her eyelashes as she inched forward, thrusting a plastic folder into his hands, "…but I think you need to see this. And if you have any questions, you can reach me on the number inside. Officer Leticia Howard."

"We'll make sure to give you a call." Claire smiled forcefully, drawing closer to Owen's side before she could remind herself not to feel possessive. Normally, she'd poke fun at her boyfriend's female fan club – but Owen had a little thing for women in uniform.

"Uh…appreciate you bringing him home, officers." The baffled tone in Owen's voice and eyes as he shook hands with the police officers spoke volumes. They exchanged a few terse pleasantries before the door slammed shut with a thud.

The tension in the room was so tangible, a knife would have sliced it. The silence was deafening.

Owen blew out a heavy breath, hands on his hips. He pinned Stan with a look of genuine surprise.

"You okay?"

Flying off the handle was not Owen's go-to reaction to a crisis. It was yet another trait Claire appreciated.

Surprisingly, Stan-the-smart-aleck had nothing to say. He stood, rain dripping off his clothes and hair, face tight with a closed-mouth snarl.

" _Stan_ ," Owen dipped his head, attempting eye contact, "Are you _hurt_? Don't make me start checking…"

"I'm _fine_." The words were a growl. Stan's throat sounded raw.

"Okay." Owen's tone was a question. It said 'where do I go from here?'. His eyes darted to Claire and, seeing the helplessness there, she smoothly took over.

"Stan, why don't you go get out of those wet clothes before you get sick?" Claire suggested with what she hoped was a neutral smile, "I think Lorna just left a fresh pile of laundry in your room."

He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't look at Owen. But he did head for his room, leaving a trail of puddles and invisible storm-clouds in his wake.

When the door slammed and rattled the china cabinet, Owen turned anxious eyes on Claire.

"Do you think doppelgangers exist?"

Any other woman would have frowned in confusion. Claire caught his drift with a weary sigh.

"Owen…"

"No, really, I saw this documentary on some internet website..."

She rolled her eyes, "Was it Youtube?"

" _That_ is not my son." The man whispered with a frantic point down the hallway, "I mean, trespassing, breaking and entering into private property?"

"These things _happen_ , Owen."

"To _Stan_?" He raised his eyebrows, "The kid made me _ground_ him so he wouldn't have to go to a _party_."

"I remember. But…"

"He said the guy's house smelled like patchouli oil and he didn't want people to know that he's 'allergic'..."

"He's not _fine_ , Owen!" Claire snapped loudly, interrupting in frustration. She folded her arms as her boyfriend stared her down. "He's _not_."

The chiming of the doorbell heralded temporary relief from the conversation.

"Great." Owen nodded, " _You_ get it. I've had enough surprises for one night."

"SURPRISE!" The door wasn't even fully open before the call hit Claire in the face.

"Karen! What…hi!" Claire stammered at the sight of her older sister and two nephews on her front steps.

"Ooh, come here!" Karen engulfed her in a crushing embrace before instantly pulling away, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I forgot about your arm. Is it okay? How are you doing? Would it have killed you to call me more than _once_?" She continued rambling as they stepped inside, "We've been _glued_ to the news feeds since it all happened!"

"Uh… _she's_ been glued." Zach felt the need to clarify sullenly.

Claire blinked heavily, "Um…yes, we're all fine. How…why are you…"

"Claire, please." Karen eyed her caustically, endearingly, "Did you think I was going to just wait around for an invitation? So anyway," She continued briskly as the boys took off their coats, "I brought your favorite bottle of red, and something a little stronger for Owen, since I know he likes his blood nice and flammable in the evening. Oh!" She gasped as Stan entered the living room, "You must be Stanley!"

"Uh…" The young man – wearing dry clothes and vacant eyes – looked at the trio of new faces guardedly, "hi."

"I have heard _so_ much about you!" Karen closed the space between them and, without preamble, squeezed him into a hug, "Thank God you're okay! _Please_ tell me that they're feeding you something other than take-out and gourmet meals." She pulled away to appraise the startled youth, "My sister seems to think that _caviar_ is great nutrition for growing teenagers!"

"Thank you, Karen." Claire smiled tightly _. It was one time. One!_

Stan just stood, gaping, as Karen continued to prattle.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Karen, Claire's big sister, and these are my sons, Zach and Gray. Say hi, boys!"

Gray gave an enthusiastic wave, his mouth agape. His older brother nodded tersely, eyeing Stan as though he were a lion crouching in the dark.

At that moment, Owen walked in, and Karen mercifully shifted focus.

"Owen! So nice to see you!" The traditional hug was imposed upon him.

"Karen! Wow! This is…so great!" Owen threw his girlfriend a wide-eyed look of question to which she responded with a clueless shake of her head.

No, she _didn't_ know about this.

An impromptu dinner was thrown together, with Karen insisting on doing most of the cooking. Claire tried her best to ignore her sister's less than subtle digs at her homemaking skills. The bottle of red helped her out in that department. She quaffed large gulps as they all sat down to eat.

Owen's hand slipped into hers under the table, squeezing her fingers gently even as Gray spoke with him excitedly.

Claire felt herself relax slightly and shot her boyfriend a grateful smile.

"So, Stanley," Karen dished out food as she spoke, "why don't you tell us about yourself? Where are you from?"

Stan, who'd previously been slouched in his chair, sat bolt upright like a frightened deer, "Uh…I…here. I'm from here."

"Did you really fall into the mosasaur lagoon?" Gray blurted out, eyes wide and eager, "I saw on CNN that you almost died or something!"

"Gray!" His mother remonstrated, "I'm so sorry, Stanley."

Karen didn't notice the tension the innocent question had provoked in both Stanley and Owen. Claire did. And the younger Dearing took another sip of liquid courage before shifting the conversation before one or the other spontaneously combusted.

"So, Zach! Tell me about school. I heard you're looking to study abroad next year."

"Yeah, there's some exchange programs I'm looking into." Her nephew drawled noncommittedly, "Maybe Europe or something. I dunno."

"Well, that sounds great."

Karen snorted, "Ugh, don't encourage him. It's bad enough that Scott's behind him on this. After everything that happened last year, I'm just not ready to let you go yet." The last sentence was directed with a tender look at Zach – who blushed furiously.

"Mom, please. The only dinosaurs I'm gonna find in Europe are the ones in a museum."

"Well, I heard they shipped some raptors out of Isla Nublar to some secret facility!" Gray interjected, "Maybe the government wants you to train them like you did with Blue, Uncle Owen."

 _Oh wow._ Claire nearly choked on her largest gulp of wine yet. Beside her, Owen cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable with the suggestion. Or maybe it was being called Uncle Owen. Gray insisted on doing that, for some reason.

"Owen's not training any more raptors, stupid." Zach growled at his brother.

" _Please_ don't call your brother stupid." Karen frowned.

"Why don't we all just eat before the food gets cold?" Claire snatched up Stan's empty plate, "Stan, do you want your meatballs mixed in with the noodles or just…"

"I'm not hungry. Thanks."

Claire caught Owen's jaw clench and put on her hero hair. She was determined to salvage the night before Karen got more fodder for her life lectures.

" _Claire, you and Owen really need to figure out what you're doing."_

" _Is this relationship going anywhere? Has he made a commitment? Have_ you _? Don't tell me you're holding out."_

" _Guys like Owen don't just fall out of the sky, Claire!"_

" _Your biological clock isn't windable, you know!"_

Claire was brought back to reality by Owen snatching the plate from her hands. The man silently loaded it with enough food to feed an army before he plonked it in front of his son with a stony expression and sat back down.

Gray – dear, sweet Gray – broke the awkward silence. "My teacher says if you don't eat protein, your muscles don't develop, and you stay skinny forever."

"Muscle isn't fat." Stan broke his silence acidly, "Your teacher is clearly as incompetent as mine."

"Stan." Claire rolled her eyes. Owen, oddly – dangerously – said nothing.

"What's 'incompetent'?" Gray aimed the question at his brother.

"It means 'stupid'." Zach's scowl suggested he didn't appreciate Stan's dig at his little brother, "You know, like when you trip and fall head-first into a lake with a giant monster?"

Karen stuttered her son's name, flabbergasted.

"Actually, I fell head- _last_." Stan snapped, "And I didn't trip. I got knocked out by a raptor. You know, those things your _Uncle Owen_ likes to train?"

A chair slid away with a loud thump. Owen was on his feet.

"Kitchen. Now." The words were quiet, strained. And there was no doubt in anyone's mind at whom they were directed.

For a terrifying moment, Claire was afraid that Stan had no intention of obeying. Her relief was palpable when the young man stormed after his father, who had already abandoned the comically awkward dinner table.

Karen winced at the slamming of the kitchen door. "What has gotten into you?" She levelled her oldest son with a horrified glare.

"He's a jerk." Zach muttered into his spaghetti.

His mother scoffed, "Oh, but _you're_ such a saint."

"At least I'm not a mopey, ungrateful little know-it-all! I mean, if _I_ was Owen's kid, I'd…" He stopped, realizing he'd said too much, and shook his head, "Whatever. I'm not apologizing."

Claire and Karen shared measured glances as both came to a startling realization.

Zach was jealous of Stanley.

Claire doubted Stan would appreciate that little revelation right just then.

* * *

As soon as the kitchen door afforded them some privacy, Owen began to pace. Stan watched him do so, arms crossed over his chest in a hostile stance.

His father's hands drifted from his hips to his head. Owen opened and closed his mouth several times before Stan lost it.

"Just spit it out, Owen."

"You know what? I just spent the last ten minutes of the Patriots' match getting dirty looks from Officer Barbrady, so I _think_ I get to be 'Dad' tonight, if that's okay with you!"

Stan gave a sullen eye-roll and went quiet.

Owen's lips clenched tightly, "What were you even _thinking_?"

The kitchen faucet dripped, beating down on the stainless steel sink.

"Silent treatment's gettin' _real_ old, Stan."

"Nothing. I don't think. I'm stupid."

"You just got caught breaking into somebody's _home_. Now lucky for you, that somebody was feeling generous. But, here's the thing," Owen leaned forward, voice and face darkening, "you're _not_ stupid. You're the smartest freaking kid I know. So don't you _dare_ try and tell me you weren't thinking. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing and why. And so," he backed away a step, loosened up his tone and spread his hands, "sharing is caring, Stanley."

Stan eyed him like he'd sprouted a third eye.

"Come on. Why'd you do it?" Owen raised his eyebrows, "Was there, like, some really nerdy book in there you wanted to steal? Maybe some tickets to Comic Con or something? I don't know, Stan!" He continued, frustrated, "Whatever it was, you could've just come to me and _asked_ , for God's sake…"

"It was _my_ house!" Stan screamed, so loudly and suddenly that Owen jumped, "Mine! I lived there! _We_ lived there!"

 _Oh_. A lightbulb clicked on as Owen's mind began to connect the previously jumbled dots.

"Laurel Street." He breathed, "You went back to your old house. That's why the owner didn't press charges. It was Gary."

"What does he care I was there?" Stan was still yelling, his face flushed red, a rage in his eyes that Owen had never seen before, "He doesn't even _use_ the place! I had to water Mom's flowers 'cause they were dying in his garden! Every fucking day they were drying out and wilted…"

"Every day…you did this more than once? Jesus, Stanley…"

"Where the hell do you think I've _been_ all week?! What, you think I was at the park spraying graffiti on the merry-go-round or something?"

Owen pinched the bridge of his nose, "If you wanted to go over there, why didn't you just ask Gary? He would've said yes in a heartbeat!"

"Because it's none of his business!" Stan seethed.

"Well, whose business _is_ it, Stan?" Owen barked angrily, "It's not Gary's, the man who _owns_ the joint! It's not mine _either_ , apparently – I mean, I'm just your _dad_ , for Christ's sakes. Why should _I_ know anything?"

"Why _should_ you?" The boy demanded, "You tried to keep _me_ in the dark when you hid my entire life in moldy boxes in the garage!"

"That was _different_!"

" _How_ was it different?"

"BECAUSE I TOLD YOU THE TRUTH!" Owen finally raised his voice. Cursing under his breath, he lowered it once more, "I was honest with you, Stan – even though I was afraid of your reaction, I was honest."

Stan eyed him contemptuously, "Well, I didn't _want_ to be."

"You know something?" Owen said in a voice that sent chills down Stan's spine, "When we got back from Isla Nublar and I thought about all the times, all the ways you put yourself in danger – you know what I wanted to do, Stan? I wanted to take you home and I wanted to whip your ass, just like my daddy did with me."

Stan's face went pink at that revelation.

"But I _didn't_." Owen continued, "And you know why? Because that wasn't the relationship I wanted to have with you, Stan. We don't just do things because we _feel_ like it."

The second hand ticked on the kitchen clock with fervency, making itself heard in the icy silence that briefly filled the room.

"Look…if we leave Claire out there without back-up for more than twenty minutes, she's gonna get yanked in for sororicide."

Stan was breathing forcefully, his fists clenched against his sides. "You're the one who started it."

"You're right. You're right, and I'm sorry." Owen held up a hand, "Now can we just…go back out there and put on a show for Karen and the boys so that Claire doesn't kill us all? _Please_."

They did. Claire had finished the bottle of wine and opened one from her personal reserves. Karen was engaged in a passionate speech about the joys of drinking one's blended placenta.

Zach had put on his headphones and was thumbing desperately at his touchscreen.

Gray approached Stan and Owen conspiratorially, "Hey…you guys wanna see something?"

Stan had returned to his social cocoon, prompting Owen to answer.

"Sure, buddy. What's to see?"

Gray glanced over his shoulder at his mother before breaking into a wide grin. "You might wanna grab your coats."

The rain had eased up a little, rippling in light patters across the giant puddles it had left in the lamp-lit street. Owen reached out and yanked up Stan's hood as they followed Gray down the sidewalk.

Stan made no protest. It was a first.

"When the ferries came in from Isla Nublar," Gray prattled excitedly as they walked, "word got out that some of the Costa Rican security guards and captains were on the take."

"What?" Owen squinted, "What do you mean?"

"People said they were paid to smuggle baby dinosaurs…herbivores, of course…off the island." Gray fished Karen's car keys out of his pocket as they approached her ride, "Rich people wanted them as pets or something."

Owen stopped in his tracks, exchanged a wide-eyed look with Stan, and cleared his throat. "How exactly do you know this, Gray?"

The little boy turned soft, earnest eyes on him, "You have to _promise_ not to tell my mom."

The words were like a herald of doom. Owen felt Stan's eyes on him, watching and waiting for his father's response. He felt a slither of dread in his gut and wished desperately that he'd said _no_ when Gray had asked if they 'wanted to see something'.

Owen knew – he just _knew_ – what that something was.

Refusing to bind himself to any promise, he simply gave Gray a wink and a pat on the back. "Let's see what you got, huh?"

The boy unlocked the trunk of the car without another word. Shoving aside several duffel bags and empty packets, Gray pulled back a tarp to reveal a cardboard box riddled with breathing holes.

Stan sucked in a breath beside his father. "I'm guessing that's not a frog for Biology Class." He whispered tensely.

Owen moved forward, placing a hand on Gray's shoulder as the boy carefully lifted the lid off the box.

There, nestled in the warmth of a pile of vegetables (and its own excrement) was an infant Triceratops. Its bulbous eyelids fluttered in sleep, unaware of its audience.

"I rescued him." Gray announced proudly, "One of mom's executive friends has a boyfriend from Dubai. He's like this millionaire person who collects exotic animals as pets. We were at her house for dinner when some guys dropped this off for him." He stroked the tiny creature's heaving back, "I knew there was an animal in the box. I was curious, you know? But when I found this little guy…I knew I had to get him out of there and get him to _you_ , Uncle Owen. _You_ can help him, right?"

Stan whistled under his breath and leaned in to his father, "Can I just say how glad I am that Baby Three-Horns is _totally_ taking the heat off me right now?"

"Well, don't get too comfy," Owen muttered as he took in the sleeping dinosaur with mounting panic, "'cause by the time you get through helping me with Baby Three-Horns, as you call him…" He cast Stan a wry look, "…you're gonna wish I'd grounded you."

 _TBC_

* * *

 _ **There it is, Kat! There will be a part two of this little adventure just for you – when I can get around to it. If anyone out there has anything in particular they'd like to see featured, just let me know!**_


	19. Plot Bunnies and Rabbit Holes

**So, I know we aren't meant to use chapter updates for the sole purpose of an author's note, but it's the only way I can make sure all my readers out there get this message.**

 **I know I said there'd be no sequel to In Loco Parentis.** My muse had settled down to hibernate for winter, and since I'm one of those authors who hate leaving work unfinished, I wasn't ready to commit to one unless a plot bunny dragged me down another rabbit hole. **But in writing the last chapter I posted, I realized these little 'one-shots' were following a steady current**. **And then Jelsemium, one of my fab reviewers, pointed out that I might be in denial**. Just a little bit. And you know what? Jelsemium, you're right.

 **So where is this big spiel going? Well, here it is: I'm doing a sequel**. Can't promise it'll be a long one, but there you have it. Guess I'm not done yet. If you are interested in following the adventures of Owen, Claire and co., please **add me to your Author Alert list** OR keep a hot eye on my profile. **Because things are about to get even whackier ;).**

 **Stay tuned! - Tyler**


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